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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, 


In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. 




The Rhine — Bixgex — Wiesbaden 7 

Heidelberg — Sunset — Prussian Soldiery 11 

The Is^eckar — Stuttgardt — Ulm — ISTapoleon 14. 


Lake of Constance — Switzerland — Lake of Thun — The Yungfrau — 
Lalterbrunnen — The Wengern Alp 19 


Mountaineers — Isolation — Practical Art — Man's Agents — Princes 
AND Priests — Sacerdotal Despotism — Catholicism — JESL^TISM — 
Conclusions 23 


Swiss Republic — Baden-Baden — The Nun — Peace-Congress in Frank- 
fort 31 




Stage-coach and Car — Conservatism — German Burgher and Postilion 
— Prim.vry Education in Germany 37 


Marburgh — Monument — Railroad to Cassel — Cassel to Dresden . 42 

A Day in Dresden 47 


Weim^vr — Cemetery — Schiller's Study — Gall and Goethe — Cranium 
of Schiller — Weim^vr's high Inhabitants 65 

Eisenach — The Wartburg — Luther 64 


Who follo^ved Luther — Races — Color — Christianity — Protestants 
and Catholics — English and Spanish America — Con'^t:rsions to 
Romanism — Religion 72 


Supper-Table at the " Half- Moon" in Eisenach — Annadale — Grimm's 
Tales — Migration Westward 88 

GiEssEN — Liebig — Marienberg — Priesnitz — The Rhine . . .95 




Cologne — Dusseldorf — Artists — Leutze's Washington — Freiligratii 00 

Cleanliness — Belgian Prosperity — Statistics 104 


France — DEirocEACY — Bonaparte — Louis Phillipe — Louis Bonaparte . 110 


A Day in Paris 119 


A Walk in the Louvre 151 

Fragments 164 




To be taken up by a steamboat on the Rhine is always a lively 
incident. Out from her level path to the pier the strenuous gay 
boat glides with a grace that captivates the traveller, like the 
smiling welcome of a beautiful hostess. On the morning of 
Monday the 22d of July, 1850, there was a fog on the river, so 
that the Goethe, due at Boppart at half-past one, did not arrive 
from Coblenz till past two. Seated on the quay with cheerful 
company, we escaped the vacuum which, to the idle as well as 
to the busy, ever comes with waiting. 

To be ushered of a sudden, hungry, upon the scene of a repast 
that has been, with the fragments of good cheer strewn around, is 
not a happy beginning. When we got on board dinner was over. 
Under the awning, at the long, narrow tables, with tall, empty 
Rhenish bottles in the midst, a medley of nations were chatting 
German, French, English, with the volubility and complacency 
of satisfied appetites. 

Man is the creature of food. To be well fed is the first con- 
dition of thriving manhood. Let the others take rank as they may, 
this is the basis. The British tar was right, who, on seeing the 

beef destined for an American man-of-war, exclaimed, " D 

'em, no wonder they fight so." Let Europe look to it. The 
twenty-five millions of the United States take in daily as much 


nutriment as almost double the number of any other Christian 
feeders. Not that the Americans are overfed : the Europeans 
are fearfully underfed. John Bull is getting puzzled and alarmed 
at the pace at which Jonathan is '•' going ahead.'' Let him be- 
think him, that while to his millions roast beef is a tradition or a 
festival, to ours it or its equivalent is a daily smoking reality. 
Democracy and '^ a good bellyful" go together. The which 
lakes precedence as cause, we will not now stop to determine. 
Our well-being depends primarily upon what we eat. Nature 
ordains that man should feed well, plenteously, variously. To 
mortify the flesh, except to counterbalance a surfeit, is a sacrilege 
and an impertinence. 

Reflections like these come up, without forcing, from an empty 
stomach into the brain of a man waiting for his dinner. 

I had not talked three minutes with my neighbor at the table 
before he brought in California. Neither the resumption of pay- 
ment by defaulting States, nor the feats of the Mexican war, have 
raised us in European esteem so much as the possession of Cali- 
fornia. Virtue with the Romans meant courage, it now means 
cash. If men were not hypocrites they would call the Rothschilds 
the most virtuous family in Europe. California is in everybody's 
thought and mouth. Gold ! gold ! Protean potentate, flexible 
omnipotence, gentle conqueror — what can it, what can it not ? By 
giving it, we get peace within and good-will without; by lending 
it, gratitude and six percent. ; by promising it, the service of the 
strong ; by spending it, profit or pleasure ; by hoarding it, we 
have the more of it, and by having it we are masters of most that 
the world prizes. He who speaks contemptuously of gold is a 
dissembler or a simpleton. 

The Rhine, fatted by the maternal glaciers of Switzerland, 

rushes down resistless, like a headlong herd of buffaloes on a 
prairie. But we drive steadily up, and heed not his torrent, 
tamincr his counter-flood to our will with the wizard hand of 


Genius. How divine, to wrest from the great heart of Nature a 
pregnant secret, and endow the world with a new force, immeas- 
urable, infinite. The boats on the Rhine have good fitting names, 
but not one of them the best and fittest, the name of Fulton. — I 
look up, and above the modern landscape, still cresting his vine- 
mantled hill, a stern old ruin paints his jagged outline on the 
sunny sky, and brags of the past, like some weather-beaten grand- 
papa. At the water's edge the blackened broken wall fences in 
part the compact little town, from whose midst rises the bulky 
church, triste, heavy, unsightly from without ; triste, chill, 
prosaic within ; where mechanical priests still drive their huck- 
stering trade, selling what they have not earned, and cannot 
possess without earning, fuddling the green imaginations with 
doctrinal strong-waters, compressing the expansive intellect, 
paralyzing the vivid soul, frightening to subject, enlarging them- 
selves to belittle the multitude, whom they darken where they 
should enlighten ; thus blaspheming while they affect to pray. 
The churches that arose under the inspiration of Beauty, the 
which it is a joy and an exaltation to behold, are as rare as are 
the spiritually-entitled priests, whom it is a privilege to hear. 

As you stand on the heights in its rear, Bingen smiles up 

to you, enwreathed with vineyards, — Bacchanal Bingen. The 
precious, petted vines, — ^just now in their pride of leaf and fresh 
luxuriance of new juicy shoots, — press up to the walls, and over 
them into the town itself. Opposite, Rudesheim piles its fruitful 
terraces, and a little further is Geisenheim, and beyond Johanis- 
berg, — inspiring names, that stand high and highest on the scroll 
that the traveller pores over with daily renewed zest. All around 
is one green wine- promising abundance. 

The happiest eyes that from the deck of the boat gazed upon the 
warm, expanded landscape between Bingen and Biberich, were 
those of a German, naturalized in the United States, and revisit- 
ing, after ten years' absence, his native Germany. The man 



seemed to feel for the first time, in all its fulness, the sweet 
strength of his new ties. The joy of rebeholding the land of his 
birth disclosed to him the intensity of his love for the land of his 
adoption. Of what ^^ we" had and did in America he spoke with 
the glow of one who had been raised to a new dignity. As 
watching the mellow shifting landscape, we talked of America, 
his countenance beamed with a compound delight. Through the 
present enjoyment shone the deeper satisfaction of thoughts that 
were busied with his new home. There, in democratic America, 
he had been reborn and rebaptized. He was conscious that he 
had become a larger, abler man than he could have been in Ger- 
many. He could not conceal his happiness, that he had ex- 
changed a home that v/as so dear to him for one that was still 

Wiesbaden owes its summer life to two poisons, — its boiling 

mineral spring, and its ravenous roulette-tables. Early in the 
morning, round the ^^ Koch-Brunnen" (boiling spring) a motley 
crowd of pallid dupes cool their smoking glasses to below the 
scalding point, credulously abiding the sulphurous self-infliction 
of repeated seething draughts. In the evening, a denser throng 
encircle in eager morbid silence the gaming-tables, where rich 
and poor, men and women, sick and well, fascinated by the gloat- 
ing eye of Mammon, throw their tens and thousands into the 
monster's maw. On one of the few days that w^e stopped at 
Wiesbaben, a rich banker lost in a single evening four thousand 
pounds sterling. I was told of another player whose eyebrows 
turned white in a few days after continued heavy losses. 

These crowded summer resorts represent the pursuit of pleasure 
under difficulties. 



Could a man be said to have travelled from Dan to Beersheba, 
who had compassed the space between the two by steam ? Trav- 
elling implies effort, a concurrent locomotive activity, and a self- 
guidance on the part of the traveller. Once in a railroad car, he 
is passive, subordinated, without will or authority, with but even 
a tatter of personality left to him, in the shape of his ticket. He 
doesn't travel, he is transported, and is hurriedly thrust out on 
the platform of a station, just as though, instead of being a bag of 
electrified capillaries, he were but a bag of oats. In this way we 
came in a few hours from Wiesbaden to Heidelberg. 

The beautiful structures of man's making rise from the earth 
like a favored growth out of it. They are adopted by Nature. 
The sun rejoices to shine on them. The Castle of Heidelberg we 
reached in time to behold it by a sunset of American gorgeous- 
ness. The rosy atmosphere deepened the expression of the beau- 
tiful inward facade which stood again before us, ever young and 
fresh. Perennial youth is not a fable, or a futile longing : it is 
the gift of Genius to its handiwork, and is the touchstone of Art. 
But a work of genuine art is not only young itself, — it makes you 
young. To revisit it, annihilates time. The intervening years 
are bridged over by a rainbow. 

Through time-rents and vacant casements the rich horizontal 
beams fell with a glow of celestial gladness. From the terrace, 


ihc town beneath, with the valley and plain that stretched far 
away towards the burning west, lay in a blissful tranquillity. 
Alas! only to the outward eye, bribed by the purple opulence of 
light. In this seeming Paradise the ubiquitous Serpent is at work, 
and here is neither bliss nor peace, but in their stead, unrest, 
misery. This magnificent leave-taking between Sun and Earth, 
this illuminated farewell, this broad parting look of love, which 
lights up the countenance of the responsive Earth with an intense 
flush of beauty, — how many see it or share it, of the tens of thou- 
sands there below, on whom it falls ? In torpid imbecility, in 
exasperated conflict, they lie and writhe there, with senses closed 
to the eloquent heavenly message. This beauty, which is for 
them, they cannot claim ; this magnificence of natui'e, they are 
too poor to accept. The few who, by fortune or spiritual effort, 
possess freedom enough to enjoy, revel on such spectacles, and 
in them escape from the omnivorous evil around, their imagina- 
tions purged by this transfiguring light. Only for a moment they 
escape, for the ghastly realities can be but momentarily laid. Not 
as the evanescent demons of a dream do these come, but as the 
abiding terrors that leap upon the awakening criminal. So begirt 
are we by implacable hostilities ; self-doomed to have every joy 
shadowed by a sorrow, every love dogged by a hate, every pos- 
session haunted by a fear. 

Descending into the town, we came upon squads of Prussian 
soldiery. Whenever I meet these mechanized men, these soul- 
informed machines, these man-shaped irresponsibilities, I feel 
saddened, humiliated, insulted. Plainer than words they say to 
me, — speak not, think not, act not. In their presence I am ut- 
terly quenched. I feel myself supplanted, and in my place a 
musket. In their speechless tramp there is somethimg terrific. 
This steeled silence controls my speech : this noiseless move- 
ment paralyzes my will. 

The European armies hang on the nations, a monstrous idle- 


ness, a universal polluting scab. In them are condensed into one 
vast blight the seven plagues of Egypt. Like the '^ frogs," they 
" come upon the people, into their houses, their bed-chambers, 
their ovens, their kneading-troughs." How this picture fits them 
in all its traits. Look at those knots of lounging dirty soldiers : 
they swarm and buzz over the whole land, like the ^' lice and 
flies," only more befouling than these. Are they not " sores and 
blains" on the people, a moral and physical corruption, and a 
drain upon their strength ? " The fire that ran along on the 
ground" — what could realize it more vividly than the march of 
armies, smiting like the *^ hail" as they pass, both man and beast, 
and herb and tree, and eating like the " locusts" the fruits of the 
earth and every green thing. In the crowning " Plague of Dark- 
ness," the likeness is the most palpable. Standing armies are the 
very fomenters of darkness. Their office is to propagate night 
and make men sleep on. They are coarse, brutalizing Force, in 
contrast and conflict whh the subtle, humanizing, liberating power 
of the intellect and heart of man. They are a million-mouthed 
extinguisher plied ceaselessly by the hand of Despotism, to crush 
out the light so fast as it jets up. They exist to enforce man's 
law against God's law, to be the jailers of thought, the execu- 
tioners of freedom. 



Going up the valley of the Neckar, one runs over with im- 
practicable desires, and their tantalizing importunity is an index 
of the overflowing abundance of its beauties. How many sites 
that one longs to halt at for a day ; how many hills that one 
would climb, to compass a wider enjoyment. But we must be 
at Heilbron in time to dine, before taking the railroad to Stiitt- 
gardt. To no one is dinner a more important item in the day's 
account than to your traveller. 

Stiittgardt is a " Residenz." A '• Residenz" is a German 
town, lifted into consequence from its being chosen by the sov- 
ereign of a petty dominion for the residence of his petty self and 
his petty court. In the body-politic of Germany, these reiterated 
capitals assume to be ganglia, or nervous centres, whence politi- 
cal vitality (so much as there may be) is diffused through the lit- 
tle circle upon each dependant. They are absorbents rather, 
and of a wen-like turgescence, seeing that they suck in, as well 
of spiritual force as of material substance, more than they impart. 
Here, in a small theatre, is performed, without interlude, the serio- 
comedy of Kingship, wherein Usurpation brazens it out by a pro- 
scription of impudence, and Servility is so low that it knows not 
its own lowness ; where the emptiest actors play often the highest 
parts ; and where the audience is terribly out at elbows, being 
forced to forego, most of them, even some of the necessaries of a 

NAPOLEOi^. 15 

meagre household, to furnish the gilded trappings of the perform- 
ers. To an American, there is no more astonishing feature in 
European existence, than the patience of the people. Their for- 
bearance is to me a daily marvel. 

Railroads lay open the landscapes of a country ; they take 

to the valleys. At Geislingen, between Stiittgardt and U Im, there 
is one of rare beauty, which, before you issue out of its upper end, 
narrows to a gorge, where the ascent achieved being of several 
hundred feet, the delight of the traveller is redoubled by admira- 
tion of man's mechanical art. With noiseless ease the heavy 
train rolls up the valley. True power is so unostentatious. I 
know not a clearer image, at once of might and beneficence than 
a silent shower, that slakes the thirst of half a continent. Wit- 
nessing it, one wonders at the large facility of Nature. A great 
idea or discovery, offspring of the prolific brain of man, works and 
fertilizes with a like breadth and bounty. 

Ulm is historical. It is one of the many Continental towns 

branded with notoriety by the fatal hand of Napoleon. It was 
here, in 1805, while Europe awaited with breathless intentness his 
descent upon England, that Napoleon, sped by his demoniacal in- 
stincts, having rapidly traversed France from Boulogne to Stras- 
burg, suddenly faced the astounded Austrians, cut in two their 
force, and by the capture of sixty thousand men at Ulm, opened 
the campaign, which in a few weeks was to end with the victory 
of Austerlitz. 

What grasping thoughts now swelled that vivid brain, making 
even the new diadem too small for it. As on the daily outspread 
chart the sure eye of the General tracked the marches of the ene- 
my, the Imperial glance ranged far beyond the lines of a cam- 
paign, and kindling with dark power, devoured land after land on 
the broad map of Europe. Between him and his hope, no majes- 
tic figure of Justice, no tearful countenance of Humanity uprose 
to rebuke his desires. The higher his eminence, the less he felt 


the wants of his fellows. As he ascended, he put away from him 
more and more the nobler attributes of man's nature ; until, at 
the culmination of his path, he had become an icy ambition-mas- 
tered inhumanity, illuminated by intellect. 

He was now rapidly mounting. From the height gained by the 
victory at Ulm, his horizon widened of a sudden. Into the future 
he glared with exultation. The foes before him he felt were his 
prey. He strode on to clutch them. Munich he entered as a 
deliverer. Elated with conquest, exalted by Bavarian homage, 
flushed with ambitious visions, the new Emperor seized in his 
audacious thought a boundless sovereignty. — A courier arrives 
from the west. What brings he ? A tremor seizes Napoleon's 
frame. His face is livid. His lurid eye rolls, as though tortured 
by the brain behind it. Fled are those gigantic visions. Far 
away from the Austrian are his thoughts. He writhes with anger 
and hate. In his hand is the report of the battle of Trafalgar. 

Napoleon has himself said, that but for the obstinate resistance 
of Sir Sidney Smith at Acre, the course of history had been 
changed. From the beginning to the end of his career he was 
baffled by the sturdy Islanders. This was part of his " Destiny." 
At Acre ; at the Nile ; at Trafalgar ; at Copenhagen, where 
their seizure of the Danish fleet, disconcerted again his plans, and 
poured gall into the brimming cup of his German triumphs ; in 
Spain, where he boasted that he would drive that Sepoy (Wel- 
lington) into the Atlantic. At the high tides of his affairs came 
ever this adverse potency to make an ebb in his fortunes. When 
his fortunes had waned, it was England that gave, at Waterloo, 
the finishing blow, and then bound the Imperial Upstart to a far 
rock in the tropical ocean, there to be slowly devoured by the 
vulture of his own sensations. 

This strength to master the giant, England drew from her free- 
dom. The Continental States were all Despotisms. One after 
the other they fell before democratized France. Napoleon, a 


child of the Revolution, wielded its fiery vigor to crush the old 
tyrannies. His own new one he set up in their stead. He cheated 
France of her revolutionary earnings. In exchange for the gold 
of political rights, he gave her the gilt copper of military glory. 
Her people were again effaced before his will. She became a 
new despotism amid old despotisms. She was shorn of half her 
new strength. England was the only great nation where the 
People were for something in the State. Like Austria and Russia, 
she had made war against Napoleon for self-preservation ; but 
unlike them she never succumbed to the despot. But for her, 
they would have been his subordinate fellow-despots. In her the 
feeling of national independence was kept erect by the breath of 
freedom. Napoleon, who would that no one had a will but him- 
self, who hated any and every man's liberty, who strove to centre 
in himself all political vitality, who sucked the French nation 
dry of its liberal juices, felt that England, the only home for 
freedom in Europe, was his most dread foe. He struck at her 
with his whole might ; but her might, nurtured by liberty, was 
stronger than his, poisoned by slavery. Thus, his very power 
became his weakness. In his prosperity, he had absorbed into 
himself the life-blood of France : in his adversity, he found him- 
self the head of a corpse. 

The Emperor of Russia takes the place of Bonaparte in hatred 
of England. Russia would rule Europe through despotism. Na- 
tional rivalries are not barriers enough to check her. Austria as 
a State, has the most to dread from Russia ; and yet they are, 
through the paramount necessities of despotism, fast allies. 

In the struggle between regal governments, backed by auto- 
cratic Russia, and the governed, or more properly the mis- 
governed, led by France, aristocratic England must back the 
Peoples. And this, not alone ambitiously to thwart Russian 
ambition, but from the deep instincts of her national being, whose 
health and strength spring from the democratic elem.ent in her 


Constitution. This makes her the political enemy of Russia and 
Austria, and at the same time gives her the force to withstand 
them. The intensity of life and the resources of a nation, are in 
proportion to the political participation of the people.* Therefore 
it is, that in Europe, England ranks first in wealth and power. 
Therefore, the United States, — who left behind them in their nest 
the impure political principles, the monarchical and the aristo- 
cratic, and carried with them only the pure principle, the demo- 
cratic — have grown with such astounding rapidity, that already, 
within three generations, in intrinsic resources they take the lead 
of England, their European mother, and who alone could have 
been their mother. In this conflict between Peoples and Princes, 
between Right and Wrong, between Light and Darkness, shall it 
become necessary for Democratic America to intervene, otherwise 
than with the daily influence of her principles and her example, 
let the strongest beware. 

By the having achieved a larger liberty than has yet been en- 
joyed, we march in the van of all the nations of the Earth. With 
us, humanity unfolds itself in broader, deeper strata. Liberty 
cannot but purify, enlarge, invigorate. It harbors an inevitable, 
an involuntary virtue. Even martial conquests it transmutes into 
beneficences. Thus, where we conquer, we emancipate. Our 
taking possession is not an enthralment, but a deliverance. We 
cannot subjugate, we must elevate, 

* So morbid is their condition, that in European States there are two di- 
vided constituents, — the governing and the governed, the privileged and the 
despoiled. Only to the latter, that is, the laborers, the vile multitude, as M. 
Thiers calls them, is now applied the generic term, the People. With us 
there is but one constituent : we are all People. 




From Ulm the railroad carries you in a few hours to Fried- 
richshafen, on the Lake of Constance. This is one of the best 
routes for entering Switzerland. You come upon it suddenly. 
The transition from plain to mountain is across the Lake, whose 
level expanse magnifies the contrast. You get out of the cars 
and find yourself in the sublime presence. Just over the clear 
water, quite near, is the strange land, that leaves the earth and 
goes up into the air, a land built into the heavens. It looked like 
a discovery. 

When the sun shines, travelling in Switzerland is a perpetual 
festival. Mother Earth holds here a jubilee. She welcomes her 
children with the laughter of water- falls, the thunder of avalan- 
ches, the smiles of green valleys, the salutations of towering gran- 
ite, the gaze of snow-glistened peaks. You share the sublime joy 
that beams from her countenance. Your soul and senses expand 
to be in accord with her grandeurs. You are magnified by the 
magnificence around you. Nature here pours out her generic 
power in floods. She is in a mood of Titanic revelry. She leaps 
and shouts. The Earth is heaved up and down in exuberance of 
beauty, so inundated is matter by creative spirit. 

On the 18th of August, 1850, the clouds, that for days had 

darkened the Lake of Thun, and hidden all save the bases of the 
nearest mountains, lifted their compact curtain of sombre vapor, 


let in light upon the Lake, turned up their broken masses to be 
dried and wliitened by the sun, and re-opened to the grateful eye 
the far-shining snow-peaks of the Yungfrau. A good day, like 
a good deed, makes you forget a score of bad ones. 

At two the little steamboat, with its freight of cheerful tourists, 
issued from the port of Thun for its afternoon voyage to the east- 
ern end of the Lake. The deep water, like a deep heart, took in 
and gave back from its tranquil surface the grandeurs and beau- 
ties about it. The mountains and the vapory mimicries of them 
built in the air, painted themselves with the warm light into the 
depths of the Lake, breaking and beautifying with their images 
its liquid level. Before us, to the right, the far Blumlis peaks 
of eternal snow shone whitely among the clouds that they had 
gathered about them as a foil to their own whiteness. Looking 
back when half-way up the Lake, the Niessen, that rises from the 
water's edge a regular pyramid a mile high with a base equal to 
its height, presented a magnificent spectacle. To one side and 
round the head of the mountain, an isolated, dark mass of cloud 
clung with a mysterious, threatening look, as though, blackened 
by anger, it would w^restle with it as with a foe. Tlie sunbeams 
behind, that seemed to issue up from the Earth, illuminating one 
edge of the black cloud, added to the splendor of the effect. A 
little later the cloud had risen, and shrouding just the peak of the 
mountain, gave it the aspect of a volcano in travail. 

The Lake being ten miles long, w^e landed in an hour, and 
soon had our faces turned southward towards the Yalley of Lau- 
terbrunnen. From the hot plain of Interlachen, beyond and above 
the high angle formed by the interlapping green mountains of the 
narrow valley, the Yungfrau shone a dazzling front of white, 
clear and palpable, yet dreamy and unreal, from its unearthlike 
beauty. Of the snowy surface, the eye, from this point, takes in 
probably a mile square, a wall of solid white two miles up in the 
air, bounded below by the outline of mountains, in the inverted 


angle of which it seems to rest. It was like an abstraction, a 
sublimated essence of the Earth ; so calm, so pure, out of com- 
mon reach, up-piercing, predominating. Like a high abstraction 
too, infolding the condensed substance of truth — which it cher- 
ishes and widely imparts, to the enrichment of many and distant 
minds — those pre-eminent white peaks are inexhaustible fertiliz- 
ers, sending down from their heavenly elevation food for great 
rivers. In D^ature there is no waste, nothing useless or idle. 
Everything works. Everything has its life, its purpose, its de- 
pendence interlocked with its power. The distant fiats of Hol- 
land feel the power of this cold pinnacle of the Yungfrau, which 
helps to keep full the freighted channel of the Rhine ; while on 
the rivers that she feeds she is herself dependent, the impalpable 
exhalations from them, condensed in the upper air, furnishing the 
snow, which in her sublime strength she sends back in avalan- 
ches, that give to the torrents, born in her bosom, the volume and 
speed to hurry to the plain. On her summit the Creative Spirit 
is enthroned in unspeakable grandeur, and works thence with a 
ceaseless bounty. 

We were soon inclosed in the wonderful valley, whose sides 
are steep fir-clad mountains, or perpendicular planes of bare rock 
a quarter of a mile high. Down its stony path, the Lutchine, 
whose source is in the near glaciers, comes shouting fiercely, 
as it were the bearer of an angry message from the mountains. 

At the village of Lauterbrunnen, our resting-place for the 
night, is the brook which falls into the valley over a precipice 
nine hundred feet high, and thence, from being shivered into 
spray by the wind and the height of its fall, gets the name of 
Dustbrook (Staubach). Itself a wonder, it is a type of this val- 
ley of wonders. From the twilight below, we beheld, over the 
green mountains, the rosy sunset that bloomed for several min- 
utes on one of the snowy peaks. It was like a glimpse into a 
brighter world. 


The next morning at half-past five, my young companion and 
myself, well mounted, were on our way up the Wengern Alp. 
The cool clear air gave us a good appetite for a bad breakfast at 
the inn near the top, which we reached at eight. 

Now we are face to face with the white giantess, between us a 
deep, black chasm. We stand a mile above the sea level, and 
even with us is the snow-line of the Yungfrau. The summit is 
more than two miles above the sea ; so that we have, right in 
front and above us, distant from one to two thousand yards, and 
seeming but a few hundred, a mass of vertical snow more than a 
mile high, and several in breadth. The eye strives to grow fa- 
miliar with these sublimities. Far below are all sounds of the 
common Earth. About us is a sublime silence, so wide and deep, 
that nothing small can break it ; common noises only scratch its 
surface ; it is broken by the avalanche. This solid, up-stretch- 
ing, white immensity ! This mountain-measured distance ! This 
unearthly silence ! This thunder-voice of the avalanche ! I^o- 
thing is ordinary and every-day-like but the sunshine. We 
heard and saw several avalanches. They look like a fall of 
water, and sound like a roar of thunder. Over the chasm an 
eagle is circling. 

Before noon we were again on the road to Grdndelwald. As 
we advanced we had in view successively, and at times several or 
all together, the Yungfrau, the Moiick, the Eiger, the Wetterhor7i, 
the SchreckJiorn, and the Finster-Aarliorn the least of them more 
than 13,000 feet above the sea-level, and the Aarhorn, the highest 
of the sublime group, over 14,000. What company for a morning 
ride ! We passed the relics of a forest blasted by avalanches, 
and far down the descent a patch of snow. At Griindelwald we 
visited one of the glaciers — a huge, creeping. Saurian monster, 
with its tail high up among the eternal snows, its body prostrate 
in a rocky gorge, and its head flattened upon the green valley, 
into which it was spouting turbid water. 




Mountaineers cannot but be hardy. They have a constant 
fight with Nature to win a livelihood. The stern, fixed features 
of their abode limit their being, and give to it a one-sided inten- 
sity. From these causes they are courageous, independent, with 
a strong, fond clinging to their home. Witness the Swiss, the 
Caucasians, the Highlanders of Scotland. At the same time, 
from being isolated and confined, they are inflexible and station- 
ary. Dogged, persevering, tough, they are not expansive, not 

Isolation withers whether man or community. The first need 
for human growth is contact. The closer, wider, more varied the 
contact, the stronger, fuller, straighter will be the growth. Heeren 
says justly, that a great source of Phenician, Grecian, Roman 
development was the Mediterranean. Besides its practical facili- 
ties, a sea acts healthfully on the mind by motion and fluidity, 
inviting its capabilities, giving it a broad impulse. Here is an 
immensity, and yet to be compassed, — a boundlessness, and yet 
to be explored. The Swiss want this ever-urgent opportunity of 
expansion. Their geographical completes their political isolation, 
their country being withal circumscribed. The very sublimities 
of their land are practically a hindrance, rather than a further- 
ance. These awful heights do not lift up, they press down the 


people. These grand glaciers feed the Rhine and the Rhone and 
the Tessino, for the use of others. The centres of Swiss culture 
are away from proximity with avalanches and precipices, in the 
midst of warm arable fields, at Zurich and Geneva, near the 
frontiers of Germany and France. 

A rugged, ungenerous soil, inland, cannot rear a strong people. 
Scotland and New England could not have nurtured so thorough 
a breed, but for having at their door the land-embracing ocean. 
Through it, the whole world, open to their enterprise, is made 
tributary to their invention. For development, nations need the 
sea. The ancients had the Mediterranean. Since that the earth 
has grown larger, and nations with it. The Atlantic is now the 
Mediterranean. Soon all the oceans will form but one Mediter- 
ranean for all the continents — a universal path for intercommuni- 
cation among all the peoples. 

With an ever deeper embrace Art encircles her elder sister, 

Nature ; the two co-w^orking with man for his deliverance. The 
highest service of practical Art is, to bring men together. For 
this, greater instruments are needed in the modern enlarged field, 
than in the ancient confined one. Types, steam, electricity, these 
are the mighty modern instruments. They are at once the signs 
and means of elevation. They are cause after having been 
effect. =^ They denote moral as well as intellectual activity ; for 
in productive action there is always virtue. The most selfish 
workers carry forward undesignedly the common cause. 

* These great tools are but growths, elongations of the intellect, — helps, 
which in its fulness it contrives for itself. All machines are but man-made 
fingers, legs, eyes, ears. Thence, the mind that has not swelled to the want 
of them, cannot use them. What are types or the telescope in the hands 
of the savage '{ And thence, the degree of activity wherewith those tools 
are plied, marks the rank of nations in the scale of humanity. Pass from 
the heart of Russia to the heart of England, from the sterile animalism of 
Africa to the affluent humanity of America. In Africa, tj-pes and steam are 
unknown ; in Russia they are still in embryo ; in England and America, to 
arrest them for a day, were to arrest and confuse the great currents of life. 


Life is movement. On the earth man is the centre of life. 
For invigorating, multiplying, beautifying life, all Nature is at 
his service. At first he uses partially, grossly, passively, only 
her palpable simple qualities. Compare the tools, and the work 
done with them, of the savage, with the tools and work of the 

The subtler his agents, the larger is man's gain of power. 
Who can compute what he has gained by steam ? Enter a 
crowded capital by night, to learn what a centupled flood of light 
comes from an imponderable substance. What are battering- 
rams to gunpowder, whose terrible force is in the sudden libera- 
tion of a gas. Subtler than either, electricity, — now our post- 
man, — has a speed which cannot be calculated. Subtlest of all, 
master of them all, clutching their combined force in its grasp, 
out-shining the sun, out-running the electric flash, in resources 
infinite, in power immeasurable, is the mind of man ! the centre, 
summit and consummation of earthly being, the quintessence of 
things, the jewel of the world, the citadel of humanity, the final 
superlative in Nature, — the boundless receptacle, the exhaustless 
source, whither and whence, backward and forward, flow the 
streams of the multiplex movement which we call the world, — 
the mystic womb of thought, in whose vast depths lie the Past, the 
Present, the Future, — the mighty generator, who on earth gen- 
erates all the deeds of men, and with man-like shapes peoples the 
infinite beyond, — the dauntless seeker, who on the dread confines 
of being confronts the Creative Spirit of the Universe, and wres- 
tles with him for his secrets. 

This divine fire, who dare wish to quench or control it ? 
The sacrilegious, w^ho would handle this sublime essence as they 
do gas and steam, who are they ? They are Princes and Priests. 

In the beginning, natural superiorities are readily acknowU 
edged. By their sympathies not less than by their weaknesses, 
men yield to guidance. So long as it is guidance and not direc^ 



tion, so long as real superiority is the condition of leadership, the 
relation between guides and guided is healthy. But in the im- 
perfect social organizations, for the elastic play of natural ten- 
dencies, is soon substituted the rigid pressure of artificial arrange- 
ments. Men invent laws, instead of discovering them. Then 
humanity is turned awry. Then in place of impartiality and 
freedom and natural growth, there is — in proportion to the rigidity 
of the conventional ordinances — one-sidedness, compression, tyran- 
ny. The human-arbitrary takes place of the divine-free. Wil- 
lingly or not, men have abdicated their native sovereignty ; there 
is enforced submission ; they are governed, ruled, commanded. 
Their strength has passed away from them, to be centered in a 
caste, a class, a family. Above them, in permanent possession, 
absorbing their wills, controlling their thoughts, ordering their 
acts, are irresponsible masters, greedy monopolists of power. 
Scorning men, defying God, jealous, self-seeking, unsympathiz- 
ing, the first objects of the suspicion, envy, wrath, of these self- 
constituted, unhallowed leaders, are the men commissioned by 
Nature to be the guides of humanity. The mission of these is to 
enlighten, to exalt ; the aim of the former is to domineer over, to 
possess men. The inspired benefactors, the parents of new 
thoughts, the revealers and champions of great truths — they who 
are endowed with genius to vivify and enlarge the minds of their 
fellows, when they have not ended a life of persecution by the 
cross or the fagot, have mostly lived unacknowledged to die 

Two hundred years ago, a tribunal of Theologians sitting in 
Rome, pronounced the assertion, that the earth moves^ to be not 
only heretical in religion, but absurd in philosophy ; and to the 
assertor applied the rack to extort a retraction of this truth, which 
his genius had revealed in its high communings with God. More 
presumptuous, more blasphemous than the angry denial of the 
movement of the earth, is the denial of the movement of the hu- 


man mind. The same tribunal still sits in Rome, and to its offi- 
cials in all quarters of the globe proclaims, that in matters the 
most vital, — his duty to God, his duty to his fellows, — ^judgment 
shall not unfold itself in the brain of man, but be passively ac- 
cepted from this tribunal, the privileged fabricator of religious and 
moral laws. This inhuman, this godless proclamation, it en- 
deavors to enact by means adapted to the condition of each land ; 
by the gaol and gibbet in priest-rotten Italy, — by gilded so- 
phistries, by feigned pliancy, by Judas-kisses in Protestant 

Of all despotism, the sacerdotal is the most desolating, both its 
end and means being the direct subjection of the mind. Irre- 
sponsible priests are worse enemies of mankind than princes. 
Hating each other as rival usurpers, with an unchristian hate, 
they have from necessity mostly leagued together to bemaster the 
intellect and soul ; believing, that he who could possess himself 
of the minds of men, would own the treasure of treasures. But 
the selfish are ever short-sighted. It is seldom given to thieves to 
enjoy their thefts. When priests have robbed their brother of 
that which makes him poor indeed, the wealth that he has lost 
enricheth not the robber ; for, by a deep law of Nature, which 
decrees the inviolability of the human soul, the moment the mind 
is invaded it ceases to be a treasure. The contiguous breath of 
the possessor bedims the splendor of the jewel. Freedom gives 
the only light by which it sparkles. In subjection, the mind 
pines and perishes. On itself must it be poised, out of itself draw 
its life, within itself must be its supreme tribunal. Else it has no 
spring for elevation, no self-renewing vitality, no self-rectifying 
force. It languishes, it sickens, it dwindles. But not alone. 
They who on the holy of holies lay impious hands, the Cains who 
kill their brothers' souls, they dwindle with it ; they become little 
with the littleness they have caused. Look at Spain, at Portugal, 
at Italy, the People and their Priests. What an intellectual wil- 


derness ! What children are the People, what wet and dry 
nurses their pastors ! 

Rome heing the centre of Catholicism, in the upper ranks of 
the Hierarchy there, an intellectual activity is maintained by the 
conflict thence directed against Protestantism in the freer coun- 
tries of Christendom. No correspondent moral activity is visible. 
On the contrary, being predominant, absolute, irresponsible, liv- 
ing in isolated grandeur high above the people, the upper clergy 
in Rome is further than almost any class of men in the world out 
of the circle of the conditions needed for the growth and nourish- 
ment of Christian morality, of self-sacrifice and brotherly love. 
Hence the Prelates in Rome have ever been noted for rapacity, 
arrogance, ambition, sensuality ; alternating these indulgences, 
on occasion, as at the present moment, with vindictiveness and 

Follow the Catholic priests to England, or, better still, to the 
United States. Here, without losing the vices inherent in such a 
theocracy, they become morally as well as intellectually invigo- 
rated in the light kindled by Protestantism, to the which they are 
so unwillingly exposed. They do their best to put out this hated 
light, feeling that they can never be at home in it, that in the end 
it must be fatal to them. In Protestant countries priests of Rome 
always cut somewhat the figure of owls by day. 

What intellectual force it has, Catholicism owes to Protestant- 
ism. By Protestantism I do not here mean merely Calvinism, or 
Anglicanism, or Lutheranism, or any other sectarian ism, but the 
imperishable spirit of mental freedom which has in all ages burst 
up through the crust of ecclesiastical usurpation — the perennial 
protest of the soul against spiritual authority — the continuous as- 
sertion of the rights of conscience. This spirit is the moral life 
of humanity. The Romish Church, striving ever to crush it, has 
found in this strife a permanent stimulant to intellectual exertion. 
In the midst of Protestant churches themselves, this same spirit. 


struggling ever for absolute liberty, rises up from a deeper deep, 
protesting against priestly dominion, however tempered. Its sub- 
limest manifestation was against Catholicism through the great 
Luther, under whose mighty blows the Papacy staggered. In 
the throes of its despair it gave birth to Jesuitism, which is the 
offspring of the collision between light and darkness, and which 
gives evidence in its nature of its monstrous parentage, exhibiting 
the cold glitter which intellectual light makes on a ground of 
moral gloom. Jesuitism is henceforth the indispensable armor of 

With the advancement of culture the clerical is overtopped by 
the literary and scientific classes. A vivifying book rarely comes 
now-a-days from the clergy, Protestant or Catholic. Creeds are 
not the nurseries of originality. Original minds on their side are 
prone to interrogate creeds with very little reverence ; and a heart 
of deep sympathies solves all theological questions in the flame of 
its love and justice. 

On the other hand, priests, while arrogating to themselves a 
spiritual superiority, reflect the moral condition of the population 
around them. Like man, like master. Thus the priest of Mex- 
ico fights cocks, and the Cardinal in Rome, and the Anglican 
Bishop in London play whist. The successors of St. John and 
St. Peter fighting cocks and playing whist, while Christendom is 
agasp for want of a vivifying faith ! In all things how effects and 
causes interplay one upon the other. 

Some conclusions : 

That a man should never give permanent or irresponsible power 
over himself to any other man. 

That as men are wisely wary of trusting their purses or their 
persons to others' keeping, much more should they refuse to trust 
their souls. 

That to do so, is to abdicate one's manhood. 

That Nature designs the mind to be developed, not moulded. 


That irresponsible rulers, priestly or princely, must in the 
main be knaves ; for irresponsibility indurates the conscience. 

That force is the law of evil, that is, no law, but like all evil, a 
breach of law. 

Let us return for a moment to Switzerland, whence we have 
been floated away on this current of thoughts, which are, how- 
ever, pertinent to her condition ; for, republic as she is these five 
hundred years, she too has had her princes and her priests. 



For the most part in Switzerland, political power was from the 
first absorbed and retained by a few families. In the greater 
number of Cantons a majority of the inhabitants had no voice in 
public affairs. Those in which the whole people participated did 
not contain one tenth of the entire population. Switzerland, 
strange as this may sound, has learned democracy from France. 
Until the French revolutions, especially those of -30 and -48, 
what between the predominance of aristocratic families or of Ro- 
man priests, Switzerland was as little progressive as any of her 
neighbors. She was a Republic with aristocratic institutions — a 
Republic of the bastard Venetian species. But the democratic 
element was there and recognized, only not developed. Thence, 
the popular impulse, communicated by France to Europe, if not 
caught up with more alacrity by the Swiss than by the Germans, 
found in them a mould fitted to give it at once practical shape. 
In the coming conflict between Democracy and Despotism, Swit- 
zerland is destined probably to play a part worthy of her origin. 

After having been a short time in Switzerland, to be out of it 
is like resting after work. For the mind that has been weeks on 
the stretch, heaved up into mountains and furrowed with gorges, 
the subsiding back to its normal level is a repose. Joy as it was 
to get into Switzerland, to get out again brought its pleasure. So 


it ever is with healthy enjoyments ; they end naturally, leaving 
the spirit refreshed for the soberer tenor of its way. 

From Basle steam hurried us in a few hours to Baden-Ba- 
den, whose crowd of motley visitors was waging, as at most " fash- 
ionable watering-places,'' an hourly battle with ennui. By suc- 
cessive assaults of dressing, driving, dining, dancing, gossipping, 
gambling, strolling, they manage to keep Time under ; so that 
even the professional idler, whose sprightliest companion is his 
cigar, finds that he can beat " the enemy" day after day, without 
the trouble of a thought to help him. Then, a Congress of plot- 
ters against freedom would hardly have assembled more Kings, 
and Queens, and princes, the very presence of whom, in such 
abundance, so magnetized to most of the company the common 
air, that simple breathing was a continuous intoxication, enough 
of itself to make life delicious. It would be unjust not to partic- 
ularize, as the chief attraction of Baden-Baden, its green, varied 
valleys, and the wooded hills that make them. By help of these, . 
a few choice friends and books, with the privilege — which need 
not be despised — of cutting at will into the above mentioned arti- 
ficial stores, a summer might be spent in Baden-Baden in a way 
that would make one desire to repeat it. 

From midst the town flights of steps led me, on a Sunday 

morning, up a steep height, about two hundred feet, to the palace 
of the Grand Duke. Begilded and bedamasked rooms, empty of 
paintings or sculpture, were all that there was to see, so I soon 
passed from the palace to the terrace in front of it. 

A landscape looks best on Sunday. With the repose of man 
Nature sympathizes, and in the inward stillness, imparted uncon- 
sciously to every spirit by the general calm, outward beauty is 
more faithfully imaged. 

From the landscape my mind was soon withdrawn, to an object 
beneath me. Glancing over the terrace-railing almost into the 
chimneys of the houses below, my eye fell on a female figure in 

THE NUN. 33 

black, pacing round a small garden enclosed by high walls. 
From the privileged spot where I stood, the walls were no de- 
fence, at least against masculine vision. The garden was that of 
a convent, and the figure walking in it was a nun, upon whose 
privacy I was thus involuntarily intruding. Never once raising 
her eyes from her book, she walked round and round the enclo- 
sure in the Sabbath stillness. But what to her was this weekly 
rest ? She is herself an incessant sabbath, her existence is a con- 
tinuous stillness. She has set herself apart from her fellows ; 
she would no more know their work-day doings ; she is a volun- 
tary somnambulist, sleeping while awake ; she walks on the earth 
a flesh- and -blood phantom. What a fountain of life and love is 
there dried up ! To cease to be a woman ! The warm currents 
that gush from a woman's heart, all turned back upon their 
source ! What an agony ! — And yet, could my eyes, that follow 
the quiet nun in her circumscribed walk, see through her prison 
into the street behind it, there they might, perchance at this very 
moment, fall on a sister going freely whither she listeth, and yet, 
enclosed within a circle more circumscribed a thousand fold than 
any that stones can build, — the circle built by public reprobation. 
Not with downcast lids doth she walk, but with a bold stare that 
would out-look the scorn she awaits. No Sabbath stillness is for 
her, — her life is a continuous orgie. No cold phantom is she, — 
she has smothered her soul in its flesh. Not arrested und stag- 
nant are the currents of her woman's heart, — infected at their 
spring, they flow foul and fast. Not apart has she set herself 
from her fellows, — she is thrust out from among them. Her 
mother knows her no more, nor her father, nor her brother, nor 
her sister. In exchange for the joys of daughter, wife, mother, 
woman, she has shame and lust. Great God ! What a tragedy 
she is. To her agony all that the poor nun has suffered is beati- 
tude. — Follow now, in your thought, the two back to their child- 
hood, their sweet chirping innocence. Two dewy buds are they, 



exhaling from their folded hearts a richer perfume with each ma- 
turing month, — two beaming cherubs, that have left their wings 
behind them, eager to bless and to be blest, and with power to 
replume themselves from the joys and bounties of an earthly life. 
In a few short years what a distortion ! The one is a withered, 
fruitless, branchless stem ; the other, an unsexed monster, whose 
touch is poisonous. Can such things be, and men still smile and 
make merry ? To many of its members, society is a Saturn that 
eats his children — a fiend, that scourges men out of their hu- 
manity, and then mocks at their fall. 

A nun, like a suicide, is a reproach to Christianity : a harlot 
is a judgment on civilization. 

— In the last days of August, we found ourselves again in 
Frankfort, at the heels of the Peace-Congress. 

Arms can't free a people ; ideas only can do that. But at cer- 
tain stages of the liberating work of ideas, arms have to clear the 
track for their further march. Otherwise they would be first 
stopt, and then stifled by gross obstructions. Arms may thus be 
the instruments of ideas, — impure instruments, but the best, on 
occasions, that an impure world affords. Threatened with drown- 
ing, would you be nice in the means of extrication ? Freedom 
has always used arms ; without them she would have been 
crushed. If honest men should all turn members of the non- 
resistance society, the rogues would soon have the upper hand. 

What can a Peace-Congress do against wolves ? Put your 
preachings into practice in face of a bear. Without compunction 
or a moment's theoretical cogitation, the meekest zealot of you 
all, would meet Bruin's hug with the thrust of a bowie-knife. 
There may be a time when even a bowie-knife can do good ser- 
vice. But a bear is a beast forever inaccessible to thought, which 
is the parent of freedom and peace. What if you were set upon 
by a foot-pad, who first wounds you with a pistol-shot, and then 
rushes forward to rob you, or to finish you with a poignard ? 


Could you keep your finger off a trigger, oi', if you had none, 
help cursing your stars that you were unarmed. There is but 
one way of dealing with a murderous assailant. "He who slays 
with the sword, he shall perish by the sword." The text clearly 
applies to him, and not to you. Upon him you have fulfilled it, 
and there an end. 

The two millions of soldiers that garrison the continent of 
Europe, are but legalized foot-pads. They hold bayonets to the 
throats of the nations, while kings and popes, and their minions, 
rob their souls and their pockets, and their lives. It is brute 
force, compelling the mind in its lowest as well as its highest 
needs, crippling it in all its means. Freedom of speaking, of 
printing, of meeting, of going and coming, of buying, of selling, 
of associating, — all are curtailed, hampered, or suppressed. 
Every right of manhood is maimed or crushed. Against such 
violence what defence is there ? Incalculably more effective 
arms than pistols, even against pistols themselves, are thoughts — 
when you can use them. And at this moment, in the face of 
artillery and the hangman, they are used with an efficiency that 
startles the gods of gunpowder. 

Were the conflict confined to civilized Europe, it might be 
brought to an end without bloodshed. Vienna and Berlin, and 
even bemitred Rome would soon capitulate to the fiery assaults 
of all-conquering thought. But semi-barbarous Russia, who fears 
freedom and proscribes ideas, puts herself at the head of the brute 
cause, and gives it her million of muskets. Here is a bear that, 
under pretence of love for order, would hug freedom to death. 
And shall Freedom, in this strait, not thrust the sword, not pull 
the trigger ? 

Let the Peace-Congress address itself to the Emperor of Rus- 
sia. He is the chief, nay, the only obstacle to peace in Europe. 
With an unchristian infidelity the Emperor of Russia puts his 
trust in the despotism of muskets. With his brute force he up- 


holds the regal governments of the Continent, the which, being 
dead, can only be upheld by brute force. At Paris and Rome, 
as well as at Vienna and Berlin, Russian policy rules. But for 
her, Freedom, the nursery of peace, would be already founded 
on the ruins of Austrian despotism, and her cause be triumphant 
in Germany. The logical place for the next Peace-Congress is 

The Despots have divined, that peace can only be the fruit of 
freedom. Thence they regard the Peace-Congress as a Freedom- 
Congress. It is a Freedom-Congress. But can it devise how, in 
the actual array of hostilities, freedom can triumph without a 
temporary alliance with gunpowder ? Most of its members are, I 
suspect, of one mind with three American delegates whom I had 
the pleasure of meeting in Switzerland on their way to Frankfort, 
whose tongues warmed at the talk of a universal armed uprising 
of the Peoples against the tyrants that degrade and despoil them. 




Among agreeable contrasts cannot be classed that between a 
steam-driven car and a German stage-coach. On the railroad 
from Frankfort to Cassel, there was, in 1850, between Friedberg 
and Giessen, a chasm which we were three hours in getting over 
by coach. What a good thing is a McAdam road ! It deserves 
the point of admiration. Wherewith then shall we point the sen- 
tence that tells of the railroad ? To pass from the one to the 
other is like poverty after affluence, like a good whistler after 
Jenny Lind, like beer after Burgundy. How we grapple to us 
what we once get possession of. Who would give up the railroad 
or the newspaper ? Ask the freshman to go back to the school- 
room. A progress takes hold of us like the growing fibre of our 
frame : it enfolds our life. To go back, is against nature. Our 
lot is, to go forward. 

Let Conservatives bethink them. Our moral life is as slug- 
gish as the "Royal Mail." Only twenty years ago the mail's 
ten miles an hour was very fast. 'Twas the most that turnpike 
and coach could do. Who then talked of twenty miles the hour, 
not to speak of fifty, was a dangerous innovator or an impractical 
Utopian. The ten miles is the most can be got out of the old 
Church and the old State. We want a new Church, as different 
from the old one as iron and steam are from horse-flesh and gran- 


ite. Who dare say " Halt," to the moral man ? Why should I 
doubt that we may have a belief so inspiring, that our social con- 
dition shall, like locomotive speed, rise from ten to fifty. Are we 
only mechanical ? Can we reform roads and not institutions'? 
Are no more discoveries to be made in the upper sphere ? Have 
we read to the end of the book of life, that we turn back the 
leaves to the first chapters again ? In the presence of miraculous 
man, and the mighty Providence above him, who dare define his 
possibilities ? Ye think yourselves believers, and ye believe only 
in the dead and the dying. The Barbarian believes naught but 
tradition and what he sees. Ye bandage your vision with his 
limitations : ye forego the right of reason, which bids ye look be- 
fore as well as after. Talk to the Barbarian of the railroad and 
the electric telegraph ; he will laugh at you, if he does not frown. 
Talk we to you of methods whereby evil shall be exorcised and 
good made to prevail like sunshine, of harmonies that shall con- 
vert human labor into a life-long joy, of conditions that shall ful- 
fil your daily prayer, *^ thy kingdom come, thy will be done on 
earth as it is in heaven," — ye laugh or frown. Ye civilized bar- 
barians, ye believing skeptics, upon ye be this triple malediction ; 
ye shall sail without the compass, travel without steam, and read 
never a printed page. 

— By my side on the top of the coach, was an average sample 
of a German Burgher, — stout and kindly, intelligent and acces- 
sible. It did me good to hear him curse all kings, particularly 
his own of Prussia. Not that as a democrat I need to be forti- 
fied in my political creed by this verbal pulling down of monar- 
chies ; or, that as a man I take delight in hearing a fellow-man, 
even a king, abused. It was as evidence, — such as I have had 
much of in the past few weeks, — of the emancipation of German 
feeling from the thraldom of regal prestige, that I listened with 
pleasure to my neighbor's king-cursing fluency. No " divinity 
doth hedge a king" any more in Germany. In the Frankfort 


Assembly, two years ago, an orator said bitingly of his country- 
men, " A German without a princO; is like a dog without a mas- 
ter." He could not and would not have said it, if it had not 
already begun to cease to be true. In these two years the Ger- 
mans have not made progress simply, they have made a leap. 
They have, in opinions and convictions, leapt clean out of prince- 
dom. One is astonished to hear of and to witness the so rapid 
and general conversion to democracy. Principles of political 
liberty and resolves to put them into act, are widely spread and 
deeply rooted. Among this thoughtful, reading people, the ground 
was well prepared, and the princes by their perfidy are doing 
almost better for the growing crop, -than could have done those 
who are to reap. There will be a plentiful harvest ; if it be 
gathered in blood, the blood be on the heads of the traitors who, 
having been again trusted, would again rule with the old tyran- 
nies. In two years what a revulsion ! After the popular victory 
in 1848, how forgiving, hopeful, magnanimous, trustful, was the 
whole German race: in 1850, how full of wrath, bitterness, 
menace. There will be no forgiveness of the past the next time. 
In the postilion, who from the back of the near wheel-horse 
conducted our cumbrous vehicle, I had a sample of a German 
proletarian. Proletarian means a producer of men. The day- 
laborers of Europe are esteemed, first as workers, who can be 
bought at about twenty-five cents a day, to do all agricultural and 
manufacturing work ; and secondly, as breeders, whose function 
is to keep full the supply of workers. Hence this appellation, 
which denotes that the masses here are valued as muscle-endowed 
animals, not as soul-endowed men. Our postilion had been 
twenty-six years on the road, passing over these same few leagues 
almost daily ; and yet, of the small neighboring towns or villages, 
so near that the spires and highest buildings were visible, he 
knew the name of scarcely one. His countryman by my side, 
poured upon him from our elevation, volleys of bitter ridicule. 


The postilion was annoyed, not at being found ignorant, but that 
he was expected to know such things. In his naivete there was 
wisdom, as there so often is. His feeling was an unconscious 
protestation, that personally he was blameless for his ignorance. 
They are the blamable, who, under pretext of governing, convert 
a man into a carriaore-conductino^ machine. 

Much praise has been bestowed on the schools, and on the uni- 
versality of primary instruction in Germany. For the compara- 
tive excellence of methods and the breadth of their application, 
let the praise stand. Good schooling is never a bad thing. 
Nevertheless, when for twelve hours out of the twenty-four, men 
are turned into beasts of burden, and can then barely earn the 
coarsest food and raiment, how much does schooling profit them ? 
Many of the German peasants are found in mature life, to have 
forgotten how to read and write. What time or occasion have 
they to use these high instruments ? To men so belabored, so 
disfranchised, schooling is almost a mockery. This postilion can 
read and write. Had he been never taught a letter, but been al- 
lowed a voice in naming the mayor of his village, and the parson 
of his church, I warrant he would have known the names of 
every hamlet we passed ; and this in itself, barren knowledge, 
would have been the attendant and sign of a productive knowl- 
edge of men and things, denoting that his understanding had been 
cultivated by animating contacts, and his heart enlarged by sym- 
pathies beyond the petty routine of the postilion's duties. Let 
him vote for his burgomaster, his pastor, and his tax-imposer, and 
no fear but he will take care that his children be provided with 
the humanizing media of intercourse, reading, writing, and arith- 
metic ; and no fear either that they will forget them from want 
of practice. The mere introduction of the penny-post in England, 
led tens of thousands of poor people to learn to read and write, 
just to avail themselves of the facility thus opened of communi- 
cating with their distant relatives. Open to the laborer the fa- 


cility and necessity of communicating with his neighbors and 
fellow-men, — his political relatives, — on their common interests 
and rights ; give him as man the practical education acquired by 
a manly share in public affairs, and he will be sure to provide, — 
whether by public or private means, — for the school-instruction 
of the boy. But this elevation of the proletarian is the reverse of 
what European governments desire. 



To the traveller on this route, who travels to see, I recommend 
half a day at Marburg. A prettier site for a small inland town, 
he will seldom meet with. It stands on the sides of a hill that 
projects like a sudden promontory into the valley of the Lahn, 
and whose summit is crowned with the old castle of the Land- 
graves of Hesse, round which the town gradually built itself in 
the middle ages. At the outer base of the promontory is the 
church, pure and simple Gothic, six hundred years old, with 
double towers, remarkable for its symmetry. The station is a 
quarter of a mile distant from the town. As you sweep up to it 
on the curve of the railroad, the castle on the top of the hill, the 
old town on its sides, the graceful church at its foot, with a valley 
running back from its northern slope, make a picture so capti- 
vating, that you rejoice to learn that this is Marburg, where you 
are to stop. 

On our way up to the castle, we passed the houses wherein 
had lodged Luther and Zwingli, when they met here to discuss 
transubstantiation. They of course parted without agreeing. 
To settle a theological question is as easy as to pin a ghost to the 
wall : they are both so purely within the province of the imagi- 
nation. In the castle is a chapel, in which Luther preached. I 
mounted into the plain oaken pulpit, whence the thunderer had 
launched his church-rending lightnings. 


The town, partly in shadow, clustered round the protecting 
castle, the twin, tapering spires, and the soft valley of the Lahn, 
seen up and down, combine to give a view from the terrace 
which, in the afternoon especially, is enchanting. As we gazed, 
a train from Cassel came down the valley. After rushing noisily 
past in front of us, it shot away in silence to the south, under its 
white canopy of mist, like a cloud before a hurricane. 

To " take mine ease in mine inn," the inn must be good. 

The inn is the traveller's home, and he can't feel at home in it 
unless it be cleanly and kindly. Mine host and hostess are the 
wayfarer's father and mother. When he alights they receive 
him with welcome, good cheer, and a clean bed. These he will 
find at the *^ Golden Knight" (zum Goldnen Ritter), in Marburg. 
Mine host was a good specimen of the German Boniface of a 
small town — portly, thriving, communicative, familiar but re- 
spectful, a good judge of meat and drink, and sharing fairly with 
his guests the fruits of his judgment. Twice a year he goes to 
the Rhine to replenish his cellar. While there he keeps his pal- 
ate susceptible by abstinence, and surrenders himself to the gus- 
tative joy which the Rhine offers to the discriminating connois- 
seur, not until after he has made his purchases. He warmed 
towards me as he perceived that I drank in with relish his dis- 
course about the localities where Liehfrauenmilch, Oppenheimer, 
Niersteiner ripen. As compliment to his publican qualities, and 
as index of his thrift, he owns a garden on the skirt of the town. 
His landlordship were incomplete without these few acres within 
an easy walk of his door, where he rears fruit and esculents, 
and has a daily pastime for his latter years. I am bound to men- 
tion, for the truthfulness of my sketch, that at parting the next 
afternoon, he played me a very unfatherly trick, having — after 
we had paid his bill and set out on foot to the station — manifested 
a hard-hearted indifference whether our luggage arrived in time 
or not. Had I met him within the ten minutes of excruciating 


suspense caused by his coldness, I should have had difficulty in 
refraining from paying his unparental insensibility with very un- 
filial phrases. 

After exploring the pretty valley that runs back and brings a 
tributary brook of most limpid water to the Lahn, we ascended a 
hill across it directly opposite to the town, wishing to get a view 
from this point, and attracted too by a monument on the summit 
of the hill. The view is a reward for the ascent to any one who 
does not find in the walk itself its own reward ; and the monu- 
ment I would not have missed seeing had the road to it been rug- 
ged and steep. 

I defy all the millions of guessers in the United States to divine 
why this monument was erected. No American imagination 
could in such a search come near enough to have even " warm" 
cried to it, as in the game of Hunt the Slipper. After looking 
round at the panoramic landscape, I turned towards the monu- 
ment, an obelisk twelve or fourteen feet high, built of freestone. 
When I had read the inscription. I read it over again. Yes, there 
could be no mis-reading ; the words were plain, well-cut Ger- 
man. I am counting perhaps much too largely upon my charac- 
ter for veracity, in hoping that it will be able to withstand the 
shock of the reader's incredulity, when I tell him that their pur- 
port was as follows. A princess of Hesse-Cassel had one fine day 
walked up to this spot, and enjoyed the views thence. To com- 
memorate this fact this monument of stone was built by some 
grateful inhabitants of Marburg. And these good Germans would 
at times take airs over us on account of African slavery ! I must 
in justice add that it is a monument of the past, having been raised 
about thirty years ago. 

At every station of the road to Cassel on Sunday after- 
noon, crowds of peasants were assembled to see the steam- wonder. 
At the snorting monster, fire-souled, and wheel-pawed, they stared 
as the aboriirinal Americans did at the vessels of Columbus. But 


not like them with wild wonderment and a dim presentient fear. 
The white civilizee is within reach of the beneficence of machin- 
ery ; for the yellow savage it is an unsparing destroyer, which 
mows him down the faster in proportion as itself is the stronger. 
At the flying " locomotive," whose wings, laden with a hundred 
men, outfly the eagle, the sun-browned sons and daughters of 
labor gazed with an intelligent admiration, as half conscious that 
it is a harbinger of better days. — For the emancipation of man all 
powers must co-work ; the intellect with its logic and its inven- 
tions, the soul with its expansive wants, nature with the revela- 
tions which she so gladly makes to penetrative genius. Industry 
must join hands with Christianity, Science w^th Sentiment, Intel- 
ligence with Faith. The momentum of humanity must have 
been already incalculably accelerated by the unfolding of its ca- 
pacities, ere it can swing itself into a wider orbit. This momen- 
tum it now has ; and as the train, burthened with its scores of 
tons, swept with fabulous speed past turretted burgs and stately 
castles in ruin, it was a symbol of the present eager movement 
among the foremost nations of Christendom, striding forward with 
new energy and new hope, leaving behind the old walls and tow- 
ers of defence, and careering into a sphere of untrammelled free- 
dom and unvexed enjoyment. 

At Cassel, the population was all out of doors, in the great 

streets and in the public walks, as is the continental custom of a 
Sunday afternoon, the peasantry from the neighborhood flocking 
in to diversify and thicken the crowd. Puppets, mountebanks, 
and monkeys were entertaining full-grown men and women. The 
pleasure of the lower classes in these childish spectacles, is re- 
flected in the upper, who delight to see them enjoy such coarse 
emptinesses, it being a sign that they are themselves empty and 
childish, and therefore governable. To be easily governed is, in 
the eyes of governors, the highest virtue of a people. I am happy 
to bear witness that this virtue is here growing weaker and 


weaker. A manly consciousness is awakened in the laborious 
masses. Thence the multiplication of soldiers, who are the con- 
stables of tyrants. On these musket-shouldering drones, the 
people now scowl with feelings anything but childlike. 

Between Cassel and Dresden lie five or six degrees of longi- 
tude, and the territories of half a dozen sovereign states. This 
space, dotted with towns of historic name, has on the map a for- 
midable look, Cassel lying in the west, and Dresden in the east 
of Germany. But the wishing-cap of Gothic mythology finds its 
realization in a railroad ticket. Wish yourself three hundred 
miles off, and by having in your pocket a printed slip of paper, 
your wish is in a twinkling fulfilled, even in Germany, where 
the fiery ^' Locomotive" has to curb his impatience, and adapt 
his flight somewhat to the proverbial Teutonic slowness. 



Dresden, the capital of Saxony, contains 90,000 inhabitants; 
its collections of works of art have gained for it the title of " the 
German Florence;" its two unequal parts are united by a broad 
substantial stone bridge over the Elbe, *^ built with money raised 
by the sale of dispensations from the Pope for eating butter and 
eggs during Lent," &c. &c. The &cs. covering twenty closely 
printed pages, the reader, curious in such details, will find in 
*' Murray's Hand-Book for Northern Germany." Here he will 
have only the sketch of a day in Dresden, from notes, taken down 
on the spot, of such " Scenes and Thoughts" as presented them- 
selves successively to the writer, from early morning till bed- 
time, on Monday, the 9th of September, 1850. 

Through a window of No. 16, a spacious chamber on the 
second floor of the Hotel, Stadt Rom, I look, while dressing, into 
the square of the Neu-Markt, yet in shadow, for it is half-past six 
o'clock. Carts, and women bearing on their backs heavily 
laden baskets, are coming slowly in from the country. Opposite, 
across the square, is the great Picture-Gallery ; at the right, the 
" Church of our Lady," with its stone dome, large and lofty, 
illuminated by the rising sun. 

Before seven, out in the cool morning. Fires are already 

lighted, in people's mouths. We have just past a cart drawn by 
a woman and dog, pulling sociably in harness together, and at 


every few steps, we come upon women stooping as they walk, 
under burthens on their backs. Striking into a street raked by 
the sun, — for the air is chilly, — we soon issue upon the Wills- 
drvffer Place, set off by a fountain in form of an elaborate, 
feathery, Gothic pinnacle ; and thence onward to the Zwinger, an 
extensive showy edifice, where are the Historical and other Mu- 
seums, partly destroyed during the late civil conflicts. The sides 
of the building enclose a square, laid out in walks and shrubbery. 
Before entering, let us read the printed notice at the gate- way : — 
" These grounds are recommended to the protection of the pub- 
lic." A greeting like this, wins at a stroke the affection of the 
stranger. Such gentle fraternal w^ords, tell of refinement and 
mutual trust. They made sacred to us every blade and leaf 
within the enclosure. We walked back to the inn with the sen- 
sation that one has, after receiving welcome unexpected news. 

The carts in the New Market-place have emptied their loads, 
which are now piled up breast high on one side of the square, 
pile next to pile of huge loaves of rye bread, baked in the neigh- 
borinor villages. 

Waiting for breakfast in the public room of the Stadt Rom, 
from a seat by the corner window, I have a level view of the 
whole square, and a close one of the current of passers in and 
out of it, through a street that runs by one side of the hotel. 
People have not a brisk auroral air ; they look relaxed instead of 
braced. They don't go at the day vigorously. This early aspect 
of awakened Dresden, is of a town that takes its leisure. After 
breakfast, I sauntered across to the sunny corner of the square, 
towards the church, where the market-women with their baskets 
of vegetables are chatting and chaffering. Their heads are with- 
out covering. If upon the living brain the sun could breed 
thought, as upon the dead he breeds maggots, what vaulted brows 
would crown the faces of European peasants, what Moses-like 
coruscations would shoot from their parturient foreheads. But 


then they would cease to be peasants, to be the drudge-horses and 
patient oxen that they are. The sun breeds only brownness and 
dryness, which embellish not the feminine physiognomy. The 
market-women, however, look ruddy and cheerful, and show 
well, as country people always do, by the side of the townfolk. 

At nine, by appointment, with other sight-seers, to the 

Green Vault (das GriXne Gewolbe), — a regal curiosity-shop, 
stocked with Mosaics, jewels, trinkets, miniature-carvings in wood, 
ivory, and precious metals, and other costly rarities. Here and 
there is a bit having the unworn stamp of beauty ; but the most 
of them are not works of Art ; that is, works embodying thought, 
sentiment, or vivid corporeal reality in beautiful forms. They 
are skilful handiwork, with little head or heart- work ; the toil- 
some shapings of uninspired fancy ; the lifeless leavings of Art, 
elaborate nothings ; fruits of the patronizings of tasteless Princes. 
The most precious jewels were absent, having been removed for 
safe-keeping to the Fortress of Konigstein. They showed us one 
unique natural product, — a crystal globe twenty-two inches in 
circumference, a solid transparence, a flawless mineral purity, 
purged by subterranean fires. 

The Historical Museum is an abstract, written in daggers and 
breastplates, of the history of war during the latter half of what 
are called the middle ages. These coats of mail are contemplated 
with a certain favor if one will regard them as life-preservers 
during the stormy period of chivalry. After all, these old-time 
brawlers and spoilers took devilish good care of their skins. 
Just before quitting the Museum we came unexpectedly upon 
arms of a totally different and immensely more effective kind, the 
pen of Goethe and the modelling-stick of Thorwaldsen. These 
modest, tiny weapons, what conquests have they not made ! 
They lay in their little case a mordant irony on the performances 
of the Duke Georges and Prince Henrys, whose effigies on horse- 
back, armed cap-a-pi6, we had just seen, and whose exploits, only 


heard of through the mouth of the droning cicerone, we had al- 
ready forgotten. It is a humane surprise prepared for the visitor, 
thus to quicken his spirit with these modern holy relics, after it 
has been wearied with such a flat reiteration of profane antiquities. 

We have time before dinner to look upon some of the 

splendors in the Collection of Pictures, one of the richest in Eu- 
rope. Passing with hasty glances through the broad galleries, 
iiung by the procreant hand of genius, we soon found ourselves 
at their centre, before the masterpiece of masterpieces, the Ma- 
donna di Sto. Sisto of Raphael. When, after gazing at it often, 
you happen to be in the congenial receptive mood, which a work 
of art demands, in order to be appreciated, the wonderful perfec- 
tions of this picture reveal themselves. Those two heads, the 
Mother and Child ! In the Madonna is the plenitude of womanly 
life and beauty ; grace united with power, strength with sweet- 
ness. What a grand contour of head, yet soft and feminine ; 
calm, earnest, with a deep look of unspeakable beatitude. The 
whole and the individual features, regular as Greeks could have 
made them, and yet without coldness or limitation, but warm as 
happiest maternity and of infinite suggestiveness. — The Child has 
a wise, almost wizard look. But for the earnestness and mystic 
depth in the eyes, one might think it the head of an urchin who 
would prove hard to manage, — and in truth the man Jesus was 
unmanageable, a protestor and reformer, a rebel against the 
priestcraft of his time. The big eyes look like loop-holes through 
which the Past is peering thoughtfully and sadly into the Future. 
The hair is wild and unkempt. The head and face are not regu- 
lar, but running over with beauty ; infantile and beyond child- 
hood ; shining with an inward light, that ennobles the features 
with the glow of human intellect and sympathy. With the in- 
stinct of genius, Raphael has made the head large, but the size 
is absorbed by the light of the expression. — The two up-gazing 
Cherubs at the base, — the types of love and joy, the focusses of 


infinite rapture, marvellous little winged heads, — are in power 
and beauty entirely subordinated to the unwinged Jesus. — This 
is a picture that Fame has never caught up with. 

Ere we quit the Gallery let us pause for a moment before 
another of its chief treasures, — Neptune stilling the Tempest, by 
Rubens. At the command of Neptune, standing in a shell borne 
on the waves by sea-horses with heads and necks above water, and 
followed by sea-nymphs, the angry winds with black wings are 
reluctantly retiring. What breadth and power of conception, ex- 
pression and coloring. One is nerved by looking at this picture. 
Those three prancing heads are a great creation. Rubens has 
here brought to view the original types of the horse species, the 
progenitors of the whole equine race, such fire is there and inex- 
haustible strength, such a nervous dilation in those heads, darting 
lightnings from eye and nostril. 

At one, — a wholesome hour, — we sat down with a score of 

fellow. diners to the public dinner in the hotel. The dishes, served 
successively, were soup, fish, mutton-chops with red cabbage, 
roast veal, rice pudding — a modest repast which cost forty cents 
in money and one hour and a quarter in time. 

The human capacity of adaptation is nowhere more forci- 
bly exhibited than in the acquired callousness to the suffering 
which, in Europe especially, assaults the compassion at every 
turn, and which, but for this pliancy to circumstances, would keep 
the spirits forever low and banish smiles from the countenance of 
man. But there are spectacles to which no use of custom can so 
harden us but that the heart will always sadden in their presence. 
In going up to our chamber after dinner we had one of these, — a 
woman bearing on her back such a load of wood, that as she 
slowly set foot before foot in the ascent, so bent was she under the 
weight that her face and hands almost touched the step above, her 
burthen thus converting her corporeally, as it tends to do spir- 
itually, into a down-looking quadruped. One hurries by such 


sights, that the pang they give may be quickly quenched in the 
sea of busy movement about us ; but against them, and even 
against those to which we are outwardly liardened, men enter 
m.ore and more frequently and more and more deeply an inward 
protest as they pass. A fact full of hope is the accumulating 
protestation against cruelty and wrong. This ceaseless heart-cry 
is a prophecy. Feeling precedes conviction, conviction precedes 
action. The one predicts the other. A present ideal of healthy 
minds is the promise of a future reality. They whose convic- 
tions outrun their practice, whose aspirations are purer than their 
deeds, who know the littlenesses of our dislocated existence for 
what they are, let them cherish uplifting thoughts ; these are not 
barren dreams, they are the roots of a more generous life. 

AVho is this that greets us at the landing with an humble smile 
from her arch face ? Her face is more than arch, it is pretty 
besides, and w^ould be more than pretty, were the soul that lights 
it itself fully lighted. Her brown hair is carried back in that 
easiest simple manner called Grecian. Her head turns grace- 
fully on a fair round neck ; and her shoulders, bust, waist, and 
whole figure are in harmony with her head. Her arm, bare and 
white, would fix the eye of Greenough or of Powers in admira- 
tion, while on his organ of form he took its impress for ideal uses. 
Were you to meet her in a cottage, you would think the cottage 
blest by her sweetness, — in a drawing-room of jewelled beauties, 
she would seem to be born for this elegant rivalry, — in a Palace, 
you might forget the Princess in the woman. Poor Saxon Girl, 
whose mien doth beget for thee such divers perfections upon the 
imagination of a passing stranger, lower than the most modest of 
these conditions is thy lot. Not for thee is even the cottage, with 
the breadth of earth and sky to compensate for its cabined uncul- 
tured existence. Perhaps from its rustic hearth thou wast lured 
by the glare of the city, towards which, — impelled by the deep 
need of human communion, — so many of thy sisters rush to burn 


their ignorant wings in its fire, and to drag ever after their black- 
ened bodies towards an obscure grave. Thee Nature destined 
for a higher sphere. Where the texture is, the sculptor's crea- 
tive hand fashions the Goddess from the raw block : thou hast the 
texture wherewith the plastic power of favoring circumstances 
could have fashioned a household Goddess, an honored accom- 
plished woman. But Fortune, to whose caprices so many are 
committed in this blind. folded world, not joining hands with Na- 
ture, thou wast disorbed, and now dost perform, — and that with 
the cheerfulness of a happy temperament,— the low daily routine 
allotted to the chambermaid of an inn. 

How few people are in their right places. And worse still ; 
were there to be a thorough shuffling, a general change and in- 
terchange of conditions and positions, forward and backward and 
sideways and upward and downward, still we should not get into 
them. The right places are not there. 

Dresden has attractive environs. But the weather is just 

now so unseasonably cold, that an open carriage is rather a pen- 
ance than a pleasure. We shall content ourselves this afternoon 
with an intramural stroll. The town has an air of old-fashioned 
elegance. There is a courtly quiet in the streets. Business and 
traffic are secondary. Many of the people that you meet seem 
to have nothing to do, and those who bear on them some badge of 
business are going about it so leisurely, that most of them, one 
would think, will be overtaken by to-morrow ere they get through. 
The absence of commercial bustle is an agreeable characteristic 
of Dresden. 

At six we walked to the large, commodious theatre lately erected 
near the river. The piece was an opera, a good one. The Water- 
carrier. About the time that the curtain of the opera in London 
and Paris rises, that of Dresden falls. At half-past eight we were 
back to the hotel, taking a late tea, while our neighbors, male and 
female, at the public table were busy with the early German sup- 


per of meat, bread, cheese, and salad, of which last, especially, 
the Germans, who have an enviable gift of copious feeding, con- 
sume a huge quantity. 

It is past nine. Although the opera is over, the Dresden 

day is not yet closed. If the reader will go along with me, I will 
bring him where he will witness what, if he has not been in Ger- 
many, he never has witnessed. In a few minutes we are on the 
Briilil Terrace, which forms a delightful walk w^ithin the town, 
along the river and high above it. Here is a cafe : we pay a 
few coppers at the door, and enter a hall capable of holding three 
hundred people : it is now quite full. At the opposite end, a 
large band of good performers is executing excellent music. The 
company, half females, are seated at numerous tables of different 
sizes, supplied with coffee, tea, beer, wine, and some with eata- 
bles. This kind of cheap, good, sociable, conversational concert, 
is characteristic of Germany. One feature caps its Germanism : 
nearly all the men are smoking. One hundred of them simulta- 
neously pulling out smoke generated in their mouths by their 
lungs, which act as bellows on ignited tobacco, in a closed hall 
neither large nor lofty, where, intermingled with the smoke-pro- 
ducers, are one hundred and fifty of the softer (I cannot here say 
sweeter) sex, witnesses of the production, and absorbents of the 
product. The throng of people sit for hours in the compound 
rankness of this unventilated hall, with an insensibility to bad air 
that verified with clenching emphasis, how custom may usurp 
upon nature. If the lungs and olfactory nerves of delicate 
women will not protest, their shawls and silks should, against this 
foul violation of the rights of women. For ourselves, as dutiful 
sight-seers, we bore the pressure upon the arterial circulation of 
this deoxygenated nicotenizcd atmosphere for twenty minutes, and 
then fled to the terrace. The Germans do not smoke, they are 
smoked. Tobacco has got the upper hand of them. 

By ten we were back to the hotel and No. 16. 




The next day towards noon we were suddenly beset by a de- 
sire to be in Weimar. I like in travelling to give way to an im- 
pulse of this kind. In the wilful breaking up of the set sequence 
of things, there is a remunerative assurance of freedom. You 
start without the ceremony of giving yourself notice. You go 
solely because you want to go. In this there is an enlivening 
breach of routine, a luxury of liberty. You snatch a sunny hol- 
iday from amidst the sombre slaveries of this conventional, whip- 
driven world. After a hurried packing, we provided ourselves 
with the modern wishing-cap, and alighted by early bed-time at 
the "Hereditary Prince," in Weimar, having rushed through 
book-selling Leipzig and book-fed Halle, just as though, instead 
of being populous, notable towns, they had been only relay houses 
by the wayside. 

I walked again in my old paths through the tranquil town 

of Weimar. 'Tis like arresting, and fixing in hard corporeality, 
the airy images of a dream, thus to re-behold after twenty-five 
years, the scenes of careless, laughing youth. The solid recog- 
nized forms are as cold and sad-speaking as the sarcophagi of 
departed friends. One hovers about them with a melancholy self- 
abandonment. I think I know how a ghost feels who revisits the 
haunts of his sublunary sojourn. I peered as I went into faces. 


with a hope of recognition or reciprocated interest ; but all were 
cold, exclusive, introverted, just like the faces of other streets. 
I passed before Goethe's house. At that door I had once knocked, 
— with timidity, as having no claim to admittance but that which 
his fame gave me, — and within I had met, shining with kindliness, 
that great glittering eye. For what is left of his mortal part I 
must now seek in the vault. 

And thither I bent my steps. He who after the lapse of a 
quarter of a century revisits the resorts of his youth, must betake 
him to the graveyard to find the vestiges of his former acquain- 
tance. The cemetery of Weimar, lying just outside the town, has 
an untrimmed look which suits a cemetery. Flowers and shrub- 
bery and grass are not much curtailed of their natural freedom. 
This wildness and unclipt exuberance is in harmony with the spot, 
and gives to it a softer and a quieter aspect. In the centre is a 
small chapel for funeral services. Through the middle of the 
floor a large round opening, guarded by a balustrade, communi- 
cates with the Grand-ducal vault below, wherein, with those of 
the sovereign family, lie the bodies of Goethe and Schiller. We 
descended by the stairway into the vault. It was neither dark 
nor damp, and was mildly perfumed by burnt incense. Here 
was naught of the gloom of a charnel-house. 'Twas as though 
the immortal spirits of the great inmates had purified it of all stains 
of death. Beside their holy remains we lingered with feelings of 
cheerful elevation. It was not a place for sadness. The coffins 
are raised three or four feet from the ground. Those containing 
the bodies of Goethe and Schiller are side by side, apart from the 
others. I stood between them, with my hands resting one on 
either coffin. 

The late Grand-Duke of Weimar, Charles Augustus, the friend 
of Goethe and Schiller, and who is illustrious by that friendship, 
requested that his body should be placed between the bodies of 
the two Poets. He had a right to make the request : he was 


worthy of that exalted place. He was not merely their friend 
and generous protector ; he had a soul that sympathized with 
theirs. Whether it be, that his successors, animated by a low 
jealousy, are unwilling to recognize his right to this great privi- 
lege, or that they are influenced by a still more ignoble motive, 
his request has not yet been complied with. The coffin contain- 
ing his body lies by itself. 

In the study of Schiller I sat down one morning at his 

desk, and with ink dipped from an inkstand of Goethe, I took 
phrenological notes on a cast of Schiller's head. There was a 
seat and an occupation ! But nothing is complete in this loose, 
fragmentary world. Why was there no mould from the cranium 
of Schiller's renowned friend ? Because men are such laggards 
behind truth. The momentous, brilliant discovery of the physiol- 
ogy of the brain was promulgated in the beginning of this cen- 
tury, and first in Germany by its great discoverer. Gall. And 
still, though so easily verified, it remains unacknowledged by 
scientific men on the continent of Europe. In freer England, 
and freest America, its truth has been forced upon the scientific 
in a great measure by the enlightened perseverance of the laity. 
Goethe, whose sympathy with the spirit and processes of Nature 
was the source of his wisdom, meeting with Gall, who, in a tour 
through Germany, was expounding his newly-made discovery, 
received it at once into his mind, with that large hospitality which 
he always extended to new-comers from the realms of Nature. 
Pity that he had not cultivated acquaintanceship into intimacy. 
His name would have been a passport to this fruitful truth, and 
thus have hastened by half a century its acceptance among his 
countrymen. In that case, moreover, his friends and executors, 
knowing the scientific value of a fac-simile of his noble head, 
we should have had his by the side of Schiller's, to compare to- 
gether and contrast the two. 

The brain of Schiller, from its large size and general confer- 


nialion, denotes uncommon energy, great force and warmth of 
cliaracter, and irresistible mental momentum. In his organiza- 
tion there was a rich mingling of powers. What he undertook 
he went at with a zeal that rallied his whole nature to the ser- 
vice, with a volume of impetus that bore him on with burning 
velocity, and with a resolution that no obstacle could stay. His 
undertakings were high, his aspirations noble. Onward, onward, 
upward, upward ! might have been his device. With all this 
fiery enthusiasm, this impatient activity, he undertook naught 
rashly. He was at once impetuous and prudent. He was self- 
confident, but with consciousness of his gifts he united an insa- 
tiable thirst for better than he could furnish. His ideal was so 
exalted it kept him ever learning and expanding. Goethe was 
often astonished, when they would meet after a not very long 
separation, to find what progress he had made in the interval. 
His intellect was under the spur of his poetic expansions fed by 
his hearty impulses. His mind was kept at red heat. His 
nature was earnest, and even stern. If there was in him no 
sportiveness or humor, neither was there any littleness. His love 
of fame was strong, but he sought to gratify it by lofty labors. 

Schiller's intellect was broad and massive, not subtle nor pene- 
trative. Hence, with all his material of sympathy and inborn 
passion, wherewith he energized and diversified his characters, 
they lack individuality and compactness. In the most finished 
there is a certain hollowness. It is not so much, that they are 
not distinctly enough differenced one from the other, as that each 
is not tightly knit up into itself, as in Shakspeare and Goethe. 
Schiller was not the closest, most scrupulous thinker, and thence 
in creating characters he could not thoroughly interpenetrate the 
animal and sentimental vitality with the intellectual, which inter- 
penetration must be in order that each personage have his definite, 
rounded, vivacious existence. Nor is the action in his dramatic 
structures always bound up in the severest logical chain. Schiller 


was not a Poet of the highest order; he was not prophetic, not a 
vates. He did not deliver truths, or embody beauty in creations, 
so much above the standard of his age that they have to wait for 
a higher culture to be fully valued. His generalizations have 
not the unfading brilliancy W'hich those truths have that are 
WTought in the mine of emotion by the intensest action of reason. 
Between his intellect and his sensibility there was not that perfect 
accord which makes the offspring of their union at once veracious 
and ideal, and elastic from the compactness of their constituents. 
His grasp of intellect was not so strong as was his imaginative 
swing. When the cast was put into my hands wiiat first struck 
me was the w^ant of prominence in the upper part of the forehead. 
Speaking of his early flight from Wurtemberg, Schiller de- 
scribes the joy he felt in having thenceforward no other master 
than the Public. To an ardent young Poet it could not but be a 
joy, akin to that of moral renovation, to escape from the suffocation 
of tyranny, to find himself rid of a narrow King and face to flice 
with the broad multitude. But there is a still higher Tribunal, — 
through which too the Public is in the end more surely and perma- 
nently w^on than by direct appeal to itself, — the tribunal of Truth. 
To this and this alone the true Artist feels himself amenable. 
For, the Artist's function is, to purify the sensibility of his fellow- 
men, to instruct them by aw^akening a poetic admiration, to chas- 
ten their taste. By creations in harmony with the absolute true 
and beautiful, he develops, and cultivates the latent aesthetic capa- 
bility of the mass. His part is to be a teacher, not a flatterer or 
prosaic purveyor. Great Artists are always above their Public. 
Did Shakspeare suit himself to the common judgment of his day ? 
So little so, that even the shrewdest of his contemporaries dis- 
cerned not half the meaning and merit of his wonderful creations. 
He himself, — sublime isolation, — was the only one of his time who 
knew their transcendent worth. To think, that for more than a 
century there was in the whole w^orld but one man who entirely 


enjoyed the Tempest and Lear, who was capable of fully loving 
Imogen and Juliet, and that man was Shakspeare. What kind 
of appeal to the general judgment of Charles the Second's genera- 
tion was Paradise Lost ? Wordsworth scorned the Public, who 
laughed at him, and having survived a half-century his earlier 
Poems, had the personal enjoyment of a tardy justice, his genius 
being acknowledged by a more " enlightened Public" than that 
which first so coldly greeted him, his later contemporaries paying 
him reverence as a true Priest in the service of Beauty and Truth. 
Pie had to make the taste by which he was appreciated. Goethe, 
mentioning in a letter to Schiller, the limited sale of one of his 
best Poems, Hermann and Dorothea, comforts himself by adding 
ironically, — '' we make money by our bad books." And Schiller 
himself, who always wrote in pursuit of a refined ideal, says 
somewhere, that the Artist's mission is to scourge rather than to 
truckle to the spirit of his age. 

It is much for a man to possess several eminent qualities that 
keep him on a high level. Schiller was upborne by his poetic 
nature and his love of humanity. He had not the deepest sensi- 
bility for truth. Thus, although, under his poetic and generous 
inspirations, he appreciated and practically fulfilled the Artist's 
function, his impulse when first freed was towards fame. From 
the same source, — that is, the absence of arched rotundity in the 
region of conscientiousness, — I would infer a want of punctuality 
in engagements, literary and other, and venture to conjecture, 
that by this failing his friend Goethe was occasionally somewhat 
put out. 

Among the precious relics was the bedstead whereon Schiller 
slept, and whereon he died at the early age of forty-six. Often 
at night, he put his feet into a tub of cold water, placed under his 
writing-table, in order thereby to keep himself awake. He worked 
his brain to the uttermost, and wore himself out with the noblest 
labor. It were easy to figure him seated at his desk, with " vis- 


ionary eye" and furrowed brow, intently elaborating thoughts 
which his pen hurriedly seized, when a knock, drawing from him 
an unwilling " Herein," he would lift his eyes with a look of al- 
most sternness, for the unwelcome interrupter ; and then suddenly 
his countenance would relax and beam, as the tall figure of 
Goethe advanced through the opening door, and rising with an 
eager motion, he would greet his friend with cordial words and 
hand-grasp. And the fever of his mind would subside. The 
calm power of the self-possessing Goethe would soothe him 
without lowering his tone ; and when, after Goethe's depart- 
ure, he set himself again to his work, it would be with the re- 
freshed feeling of one who, towards the close of a midsum- 
mer's day, has just bathed in the shady nook of a deep, tranquil 

On one side of the desk is a sliding chess-board, to be drawn 
out when wanted. Here, the guardian of the house declared, 
Goethe and Schiller sometimes played. This I refused to credit, 
and put it down as a false tradition. Games, — even those in- 
volving bodily exercise, — are the resource of the vacant ; and I 
would not believe that two such full-brained men, whose inter- 
views were to them both enlivening thought-breeders, would ever 
dedicate their tete-a-tete meetings to this solemn frivolity, this 
ingenious emptiness, this silent, sapless pastime. Still, against 
the circumstantial conclusions of reason, there was the sliding 

Owing to some misunderstanding between Goethe's heirs 

and executors, his house is only opened one day in the week, and 
even then his study is not shown. On entering the drawing- 
room, I perceived that there had been crowded into it sets of 
porcelain, piles of prints, vases, and other articles such as a man 
of Goethe's celebrity and tastes would, in a long life, collect by 
purchase or gift. The room looked like a crammed curiosity- 
shop. Without exchanging a word with a person who was there 


to serve as expounder, I tarned back, and with feelings of disgust 
instead of satisfaction, left the house. 

I contented myself with the outside of the abodes of Herder and 

After I had studied the cast from Schiller's cranium, and 

had thoughtfully wrought out a correspondence between it and 
his mental endowments as exhibited in his life and writings, fit- 
ting the cast to the character, and the character to the cast, as is 
the pleasant way with phrenologists, I learnt from a gifted phy- 
sician in Weimar, that there was a slight — a very slight — doubt 
as to whether the cranium from which the cast had been taken, 
was that of Schiller. When, many years after his death, the 
bones of Schiller were dug up, to be removed to the Grand-ducal 
vault, it was found, that his body had been buried so near to two 
others, that the sexton was not absolutely certain which of the 
three skeletons was his. Goethe confirmed the sexton's decision, 
from the arm-bones of that one which the sexton believed to be 
Schiller's, declaring, that no other man in Weimar had arms of 
such length. The testimony of the sexton's memory and Goethe's 
inference, I make bold to corroborate with the cranium, whose 
size and shape are in harmony with the man and poet Schiller, 
such as we know him from his life and writings. 

Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Herder. They still inhabit 

Weimar. Once they trod its streets as flesh-and-blood men, 
whose daily living was a benefaction and an adornment. Now 
they abide in it as genii, and make the little town large by their 
large spiritual presence. They attend you wherever you go, 
sanctifying and beautifying your path by their magical potency. 
They beckoned me into the palace, where four rooms have been 
dedicated to them, one to each, whose walls are ennobled by 
painted scenes from their works. Walking in the pai'k, the 
Grand Duke passed me with his simple equipage ; but I had just 
come from the " Garden-House" of Goethe, and the presence of 


the great poet and sage was so vivid, that to me he was the living 
reality, and the reigning Duke went by like a phantom. I might 
say with the concluding lines of the beautiful, touching dedica- 
tion to Faust, — 

Was ich besitze seh' ich wie im weiten, 

Und was verscliwand wird mir zu wirkliclikeiten.* 

The great dead are the most living inhabitants of Weimar. The 
town was to me a cemetery, and each house in it a sepulchre, 
which sent forth by day instead of by night, its coated or gowned 
ghost. The time best to enjoy the company of Weimar's high 
inmates, were midnight, when the present generation being in 
their tombs, one would be free from their petty intrusion. But at 
that solemn hour the wearied traveller sleeps, and if perchance he 
dreams, his visions are apt to be more dyspeptic than poetic. 

* What I possess I see as in the distance, 
And what is gone comes back in firm consistence. 



On our way back from Weimar to Frankfort, we stopped at 
Eisenach, that we might go up to the Wartburg, and look out 
over the wooded hills and valleys of Thuringia, from the same 
window through which Martin Luther daily looked for ten months. 
In this little room, himself a prisoner, he kept on at his sublime 
work, the liberation of Christendom from papal imprisonment. 
Here, plying his sinewy pen, he wrote those words which Rich- 
ter calls half battles ; and taking olf from the Bible the Latin 
cloak wherewith priestcraft had hitherto concealed it, he clothed 
it in warm, homely German, which the newly invented types 
snatched up, and poured by tens of thousands upon his awaken- 
ing, spirit-hungered countrymen. 

Pause we a few moments on the Wartburg, while we recall the 
early life of this wonderful man. The best monuments of men 
are their lives, and those of our benefactors we never tire of con- 
templating. In their self-written inscriptions there is an enduring 
significance. We are fortified by coming near to their greatness. 
It is a profitable curiosity that pries into the modest beginnings of 
men whose matured lives have swollen to so broad a current, that 
they inundate the history of their kind. Only the greatest rivers 
are eagerly traced to their source. 

The boy out of whom grew the gigantic man, Martin Luther, 
once begged in the streets of the town there beneath us, singing 


before houses to earn bread, as was the custom then in Germany 
for poor school-boys. Dame Ursula, widow of John Schweichard, 
taking pity on the child, gave him a home in her house, and kept 
him at school in Eisenach for four years, after which he entered 
the University at Erfurth, where his father was then able to sup- 
port him. ** Luther," says Michelet, " writes of his benefactress 
with words of emotion, and on her account showed gratitude 
towards women all his life." 

Luther's father was a worker in mines. Like other peasants 
of that day, some of whom, in imitation of their seignorial masters, 
adopted armorial bearings, John Luther took for his arms a ham- 
mer. This symbol of his humble trade was prophetic of the voca- 
tion of his son, for Martin proved to be a hammerer whose blows, 
struck with the boldness of a martyr and the force of a Titan, re- 
shaped Christendom. He hammered Catholicism out of its cath- 
olicity ; he broke its universality. With the mighty sledge-ham- 
mer of reason, he knocked half the limbs off of the Pope, who 
since that hops on one leg. 

Luther was destined for the law ; but like all men in whom 
are conjoined a large soul with a large intellect, the study of what 
has been falsely termed the ^^ reason of humanity." had for him 
no attraction. Jjiterature and music were his delight. ^^ Music," 
he says, " is the art of prophets ; it is the only one which, like 
theology, can calm the troubles of the soul, and put the devil to 
flight." He seems to have had feeling for Art ; he was the 
friend of the famous German painter, Lucas Cranach. The early 
spontaneous tendencies always denote important elements in the 
nature of a man. The geniality which in Luther underlay the 
dogmatic theologian and brawny combatant, was an ingredient 
of his greatness. 

The more powerful the nature, the less is it liable to be directed 
by circumstances. A warm, vigorous mind makes new circum- 
stances as a medium for itself, and resists the old ones. This 


initiative potency is the source of progress in the world. But the 
strongest cannot wholly withdraw himself from the action of out- 
ward pressure, nor even from the controlling effect of single 
events. Luther had just entered manhood, when the current of 
his life received a new direction fi'om a startling incident. One 
of his companions was struck dead at his side by a flash of light- 
ning. In his terror he made a vow to St. Anne to become a 
monk if he escaped. Fourteen days later, after having spent the 
evening gaily with friends in making music, he entered at mid- 
night the monastery of the Augustines in Erfurth, carrying with 
him nothing but Plautus and Virgil. It was two years before his 
father would be resigned to this his son's self-immolation. At the 
end of that time he consented to be present at Martin's ordination. 
A day was chosen when the poor miner could leave his work, 
and he brought with him and gave to his lost child all the money 
he had laid by, twenty florins. 

There is beauty in this early passage in the life of Luther. 
That he should have kept a vow taken at such a moment, is proof 
of his truthfulness and his resolution. In the act there was 
fidelity and strength. Then, the grief of the father, ending in 
the bestowal on the son of all his savings. One rejoices to meet 
with touching facts like this in the early life of a great man. 
Such are always to be found where men are manly and true- 
hearted, and it is by the substance out of which they spring 
that greatness is nourished. 

To turn monk is for a man to abdicate his humanity. He 
truncates himself of his upper endowments. He extinguishes the 
higher lights of life, those that are fed by the sympathies of labor 
and of love. He cuts the myriad threads that, binding him to 
his fellows, are the sole means of unfolding and fortifying his 
manhood. Thus isolated, the mind, — which can not be totally 
stifled, — preys upon itself. The monk is abandoned to a moral 
self-defilement. He dwindles to be the shadow of a man, or he 


bloats out to be a beast with feeding for his chief work. Luther 
could not stay monk, but his initiation into a monastery w^as for 
himself and for Christendom an immense event : it was decisive 
of his career. Monk-like, he preyed upon himself, but thereby 
a stirring was given to his deep nature. In the terrible tussles 
of the spirit, light went up in him that otherwise had probably 
smouldered forever. He stumbled upon a neglected Bible. 
Conceive of Luther, with a conscience as inexorable as Rada- 
manthus, an intellect like St. Paul's, unaided by other human 
insight or sympathy, imprisoned with unthinking, unbelieving 
monks, unlocking the Book. There was food and an appetite ! 
Job and Isaiah, and David and St. Paul first made known to 
Luther. We are now familiar with the Bible. On entering 
manhood we find ourselves possessed of its substance without 
knowing how we have come by it. The Bible is a universal 
heir-loom in protestant families. But in 1505 it was a sealed 
book. If a few learned recluses had read it, they had merely read 
it ; it fructified not in them for their or others' profit. Were a 
cohort of Angels to come singing from the Heavens visibly and 
audibly celestial symphonies in our ears, we should hardly be 
more amazed than was Luther, as his deep eager spirit suddenly 
found itself in full communion with the inspired singers and 
sages of the Old and New Testaments, their large solemn souls 
receiving his as the ocean receives a turbid great river, which 
there finds calm and transparency. 

In the monastery Luther had his first great lesson. He learnt 
there faith, not from his brother monks, who had none, but from 
his own thirsting spirit that had found its mate in the grand, fiery 
soul of St. Paul. 

Without faith a man is not a full man. By self-reliance a 
strong man can do much, but to do the most, to self-reliance he 
must add reliance on the High. " Things hoped for" must be- 
come '' substance" to his eyes by the intensity of his belief in 


Good. Into such strength are his powers knit up by this spir- 
itual attraction, that he is then, and only then, ready and fit for 
greatest undertakings. 

In the providential schooling that Luther went through to train 
him for his destined task, the second lesson was his journey to 
Italy. Had his heart not been opened in the monastery, his eyes 
would not have been opened to see what was to be seen in Italy. 
The poor Augustin Monk set out on foot, full of joy and hope 
and spiritual life. On the way he was harbored at the monas- 
teries of his order. Coming down from the mountains upon 
Milan, he was there received into a monastery of marble and 
seated at a sumptuous table. He passed from monastery to mon- 
astery, that is, from palace to palace. Venturing once to tell 
some Italian monks that they would do better not to eat meat on 
Friday, this freedom nearly cost him his life. Astounded, sad- 
dened, the single-minded German pursued his foot-journey through 
the burning plains of Lombardy. He arrived ill at Padua ; 
still he would not halt, but pushed on and reached Bologna al- 
most dying. Restored to health, he hurried forward, traversed 
Florence without stopping, and at last entered Rome. He fell 
on his knees, raised his hands to Heaven, and cried out, '• Hail, 
holy Rome, sanctified by the holy martyrs, and by their blood 
Avhich has been shed in thee." In his fervor he ran from one 
holy spot to another, saw everything, believed everything. He 
soon discovered that he believed alone. He was in Rome, but 
Christian Rome no more. 

The fallen Marius, seated on the ruins of Carthage, was ajess 
sublime spectacle than the erect Luther in Rome, amidst the 
ruins of the Christian faith. One spiritually-minded priest, amid 
that sensual throng ; one living soul, amid all those deadened 
souls 5 one believer, amid Rome's mitred scoffers ; one humble, 
God-trusting man, amid haughty atheists. What a sublime thing 
is the mind of a true strong man ! In that festering darkness 


shone, — invisible then and there, — a spark of living fire, from 
the which was to be kindled a light that would illuminate and re- 
warm Christendom. 

At the end of fourteen days Luther quitted Rome. He fled as 
from a town smitten by the plague. He says : " I would not for 
a hundred thousand florins not have seen Rome. I should have 
been troubled for fear that I did the Pope injustice." 

When Tetzel, the papal vendor of Indulgences in Germany, 
having to the long list of orthodox sins added crimes and infamies 
of his own imagining, perceived his auditory struck with horror, 
he declared with sangfroid, " Well, all this is expiated the moment 
the sound of hard cash rings in the strong-box of the Pope." In 
this announcement the Dominican church-broker embodied in the 
most transparent formula what gets to be the aim of all Hierar- 
chies. They traffic in souls for gold and dominion. Through 
hopes and fears, stimulated by their fictions, they draw from men's 
pockets the money wherewith to consolidate their power, and then 
use their power to get more money. 

After the Roman the richest church in Christendom, is the 
Anglican ; and it is so because it is, after Rome, the best organ- 
ized. The recent schism sprang from an eflbrt at a still tighter 
organization, and this unavoidably brought the Pusey party nearer 
to Rome. Organization as applied to a Church involves indepen- 
dence of the People. By organization the Priesthood gets a per- 
manent existence above, aside of, more or less independent of, the 
masses, according to the completeness of the organization. This 
independence, isolation and organic self-subsistence feeds ambition 
and encourages the impudent blasphemous assumption of especial 
God-derived sanctity. 

The moral duties of priests are well or ill performed, according 
to the moral atmosphere of each country. Bui the good that 
priests do, they do as men not as priests. And the richer they are 
as priests the less good will they do as men. 


The acme of priestly greed, impudence, and imposture, is the 
selling of Indulgences, — a practice by no means yet disused. 

At the time that Tetzel commenced the sale of indulgences in 
Germany Luther was Doctor in Theology, Professor in the Uni- 
versity of Wittemberg, provincial vicar of the Augustines, and 
charged with the functions of the Vicar General in the pastoral 
visits to Misnia and Thuringia. He was high in place, of great 
consideration and influence. But he was one of those true men 
upon whom high trusts impose high duties. Indignant at this vile 
traffic, he applied to his Bishop, praying him to silence Tetzel. 
The Bishop answered him, that he had better keep silent himself. 
He then wrote to the Primate, the Archbishop of Mayence, but dis- 
trusting him, on the same day that he despatched his letter he affix- 
ed to the Castle-Church of Wittemberg his celebrated propositions. 

A great truth or idea is something so deep and subtle, even 
when most simple, that the great man who announces it conceives 
not its full import. He is the depositary of a germ from the Uni- 
versal, the which he is commissioned to plant and to till, but it is 
a new seed, and to what it will grow he cannot foresee. But 
ideas once planted by man are watered and nourished by Provi- 
dence, for Providence doth ever countenance genius. A far 
bolder and broader act than Luther himself knew was the publi- 
cation of those propositions. Striking at the most accursed of 
tyrannies, that over the mind, he opened a breach through which 
by gradual enlargements man was to come out from all prisons, 
civil as well as ecclesiastical, out of royal bondage into republican 
liberty, out of Lutheranism itself as well as out of Romanism, 
— such progressive life is there in truth. Not only were the im- 
mense historical after-consequences of his first act necessarily in- 
visible to Luther, but so vigorous and rapid was its fecundation 
that its effects upon his contemporaries astounded him. Upon no 
one did it work more potently than upon himself. Of the eman- 
cipation of his own mind, not only from papal but from regal au- 


thority, brought about, unconsciously to himself, by the working 
of his first great anti-papal act, there is lively evidence in the new 
treasonable freedom wherewith he soon after wrote of Princes. 
He says of them ; — ^' You ought to know that from the beginning of 
the world a prudent Prince is a very rare thing, rarer still an upright 
P]'ince. They are generally great fools or great reprobates."* 

It was on the 31st of October, 1517, that Luther affixed to the 
Castle-Church of Wittemberg his propositions. 

Since the first day of the Christian era there had been in 
human annals no day so pregnant, so solemn as this. To Ameri- 
cans especially this day ought to be holy. Without it there had 
not been that other memorable epoch-marking day, the 4th of July, 
1776. On the 31st of October, 1517, was made to the world the 
Declaration of Mental Independence. Upon Germany, upon 
Europe, it fell like a trumpet-tongued summons from a better 
world. Luther found himself hostilely arrayed against the Pope. 
That was a fearful position. Even the great Luther shrank 
back ; and had he not had above his strong intellect a conscience 
tliat would know no compromise of principle, and behind it a 
courage that could brave all the Powers of Earth and Hell, lie 
would have succumbed. In the middle of the 19th century we 
can scarcely conceive what strength, what moral grandeur that 
man must have had, w^ho, in the beginning of the 16th defied the 
authority of the Pope. Luther did defy it steadfastly. He assert- 
ed the spiritual self-sufficiency, the moral dignity of man. By 
all freemen he should be revered as one of their mightiest deliver- 
ers. Noble, stout-hearted Brother; we thank thee for thy great 
courage, we thank thee for thy great intellect, and above all we 
thank thee for thy great conscience. 

* The truthfulness of Luther's picture of Princes has lately been ac- 
knowledged in Prussia, where a volume selected from his writings, contain- 
ing his opinions of them, was burnt by order of government. Luther burnt 
in protestant Germany ! What a close hug Kingcraft and Priestcraft are 
giving each other to strengthen themselves against Democracy. 




It is of deep historic interest to note, who followed Luther in 
this vast stride ; who in that age was capable of being freed from 
the yoke of sacerdotal usurpation. 

" ! the difference of man and man," 

cries Goneril. So different are men, that there never were two 
just alike; and at the same time all are so alike, that we must 
acknowledge the cannibal for our brother. Nations, — organic 
multitudes geographically defined, — like the individuals whereof 
they are composed, likewise differ one from the other. Races, 
too, — numbered by naturalists at from three to six, each embra- 
cing many nations, — differ broadly in aptitudes, habits, manners, 
physiognomy, color. This last quality, color, be it observed, is 
not a mere superficial mark, but denotes deep difterences, being 
an index of mental capacity. At one end of the human scale is 
the black man, at the other the white, between them the brown 
and yellow. The white man never comes into contact and con- 
flict with the others that he does not conquer them. The brown 
and yellow he subjugates or exterminates, the black he holds in 
bondage. The two extremes meet in this close union."* In color 

* They who, assuming for themselves a pre-eminence in philanthropy, 
run into such extremes of opinion and indignation, because their white 


there is great significance. Nature is never arbitrary, nor shal- 
low, nor illogical. She would not stamp one man white, another 
brown, another black, and mean nothing thereby, or no more 
than surface-diversity as among cattle or flowers. White and 
black — light and darkness — these are deep words. Whence is 
it that the white is always at the top of the scale of humanity, 
the yellow in the middle, and the black at the bottom ? Not of 
choice, not of outward influences are these pervading, enduring 
facts the result, but of law and inward motions. 

None but nations of the white race, and only a few of these, 
have a civil, a political history ; that is, a development and the 
record thereof. History implies growth, that is, childhood, youth, 
maturity. National growth implies depth and a fund of resources. 
In the current of centuries, a people of high organization unfolds 
itself from within, until it reaches a refined multiplex life. Slow- 
ly it traverses degrees, planting itself on its advancements still to 
ascend. Its annals are written in comprehensive institutions that 
fortify its progress, and in monuments, not merely solid and en- 
during, like the Pyramids of Egypt, — for that were not enough, — 
but deriving their durability from their instructiveness, like the 
statuary and architecture of Greece, and the books of the He- 
brews, Greeks, and Romans, — statues and books that still live, 
not because they reflect the thoughts and deeds of those nations, 
but because in their thoughts and deeds was the vitality that 
springs from the beauty there is in truth, and the truth there is 
in beauty. These three are the only nations of Antiquity that 
were nervous enough to create history, and therefore the only 
ones from whom the moderns have learnt. 

In each of them, be it noted, the democratic spirit was strong, 
but only partially developed ; for its full unfolding, Christianity 

brothers hold by inheritance their black brothers in bondage, let them look 
discerningjy into Natural History. The search may have the effect of en- 
larging the range of their fraternal solicitude. 



was needed, — Christianity, which is the highest moral generali- 
zation ; which would substitute charity for force, broad faith for 
petty hopes, justice for expediency. 

The other races, ancient or modern, the colored, have not in 
them the spring for indefinite progressiveness, for God-clasping 
development, no upward yearning for moral or intellectual gen- 
eralization. Feeble on their path are the traces of beauty or wis- 
dom ; shrivelled or immature their intellectual fruit. They have 
no ripe art, no great books, no history. They are not expansive, 
not creative. They cannot clear the circle of animal littleness. 
They lie bound in the sterility of savageism, or the immobility of 
barbarism : their life is an intellectual and moral pauperism. 
They are unfinished, and according to both history and philoso- 
phy, — whose testimony when concurrent is clenching, — destined 
not to be finished. 

When we use the phrase, "the great cause of humanity;" 
when we speak of man as capable of being indefinitely enlarged 
by thought and invention, and exalted by poetry and sentiment ; 
when we triumph in the growth of science and culture, our 
words, whether or not we will it or know it, apply only to the 
white race. History declares that the only aesthetic, the only 
scientific man, is the white man. 

Christianity is confined to the white race, and does not embrace 
all that. This is an enormous fact in the natural history of man. 
Christianity involves a struggle of man to put himself under the 
rule of his highest sentiments. Only the white race has had the 
inward impetus, the conscious need, the swelling vitality to make 
this struggle, to escape from the tyranny of sensualism into the 
upper region of possible liberty where predominates the spiritual. 

Christianity, promising the reign of justice, leads to liberty, for 
men can only get to freedom through the dominion of their noblest 
faculties. It has been a path for going forward and upward. 
Upon this path mankind could only enter after it had reached a 


certain growth. Far ahead of all others on the earth are those 
nations that entered it. They and only they have gone continu- 
ously forward. Where they have not, is owing partly to this — 
that the spirit of Christianity — the aspiration for a higher life — 
has been smothered by ecclesiastical usurpation. In the 14th and 
I5th centuries, after ages of priestly tyranny and sophistication, 
it had got to be so smothered. WicklifFe, Huss, Jerome of Prague, 
Savonarola re-uttered this spirit to priest-ridden Christendom, and 
prepared its soul to hearken to Luther. 

To some nations are allotted high functions in the life of Hu- 
manity. In ancient times the Hebrews, the Greeks, the Romans, 
predominated in turn over the race. In modern history, Italy 
emerged first out of the mediseval darkness. Among the Italians 
there was, in the 13th and three following centuries, a revival of 
the Greek and Roman genius. In the struggle for emancipation 
from ecclesiastical dominion, commenced by Wickliffe, and tri- 
umphantly conducted by Luther, the German breed led the way. 
The Reformation embraced northern and central Germany, Swe- 
den, Denmark, Holland, and Great Britain, all belonging to the 
German family. In mixed France it took deep root, but did not 
gain over openly more than one eighth of the whole population. 
In Spain and Italy the priesthood was too strong, and manhood 
then too weak for it even to take root. In Poland it scarcely got 
a footing. In the Austrian dominions, out of a population of 
thirty-five millions, but three millions two hundred thousand are 
protestants. In Switzerland, more than half the inhabitants are 

The place held among nations, at the time that Luther put 
forth his propositions, by Spain, who rejected them, is now held 
by England, who accepted them. It is no longer the petty Queen 
of Spain, it is the mighty Queen of England, that can say, " The 
sun sets not in my dominions." Like the Ariel of her Shak- 
speare, England has put a girdle round the globe. The influence 


upon the thought of Christendom exercised by Italy through her 
Dantes, her Machiavellis, her Galileos, in the 15th and 16th cen- 
turies, has been, in the 18th and 19th, transferred to the Goethes, 
the Niebuhrs, the Kegels of Germany. Protestant Holland shook 
off the dominion of Spain, and erected herself into an independent 
Republic, that for a time disputed the sovereignty of the seas 
with growing England, and was strong enough to resist the power 
of Louis XIV. Catholic Belgium remained subject to Spain. 
Where are the colonies founded in America by Spain and Portu- 
gal and by Englishmen ? The Protestant United States, in power 
and influence, take rank beside the first nations of Europe. If a 
people, like a man, is prosperous and strong in proportion to the 
number, variety, elevation and vigor of its thoughts and sensa- 
tions, which are the parents of deeds, the life of the United States 
for fifty years exhibits such an unprecedented growth and success 
in all departments of human activity, as to entitle them to claim 
a place, not beside, but in front of all the nations of the earth. 
To the spirit which made Protestantism, that is, the spirit of in- 
dividual liberty, of manly independence, we owe this progress 
and unexampled w^elfare. What is Mexico, or Brazil, or Bolivia ? 
What part do they play in the stirring, striving, Christian com- 
munity ? What conquests are they making in the domains of 
Nature — what fruitful secrets do they wrest from her deep heart ? 
What discourse is heard among them of great human interests ? 
New ideas, wdnged thoughts, what acceptance do they find among 
the nations of South America ? Ask their oracles, their priests. 
In France the massacre of St. Bartholomew and the revocation 
of the edict of Nantes tell the strength of Protestantism, and with 
what dread it filled tyrants. At this moment hardly the half of 
Frenchmen can be claimed by Rome. With the mass, Catholic 
observances are a habit rather than a faith. Among the educated 
there is an almost universal religious disbelief in the Church, 
coupled with a political belief in it as an engine for keeping the 


people ignorant and dependent ; and for this end it is the most 
efficient apparatus that human ingenuity stimulated hy human 
egotism could devise. The French Revolutions that have pulled 
down the throne and set up man, have shaken the altar and put 
God in the place of the Pope. 

In Italy the open profession of dissent from the Romish Church 
is not tolerated. But those who, despising its mummeries and 
hating its extortionate tyranny, reject in their hearts as well its 
spiritual as its temporal assumptions, are to be numbered by mil- 
lions. Let Italy become independent, and there will be revealed 
a sum of Protestantism, of protesters against Priestcraft, a tithe 
of which will counterbalance the trumpeted conversions to Ro- 
manism from among the idle, ennuied *' Nobility and Gentry" of 

Conversions* to Catholicism in Protestant countries should in 
most cases be looked upon as a throwing out of morbid particles, 
a salutary moral crisis. People who, brought up in the light 
of Protestantism, feel too weak to bear that light, why let them in 
God's name retreat and shield themselves in darkness. Liber- 
ally speaking, these losses are a gain. We want to go forward, 
and these good souls have not even the self-supporting life to stand 
upright ; they must go back for support out of themselves. Peace 
go with them. 

In this survey of Protestant and Catholic nations, what pre- 
sents itself as the most striking contrast between them ? It is 
this, that not one of the purely Catholic is independent. Popery, 
which, as an Italian writer says, " is a Theocracy founded on 
the absolutely moral slavery of man," destroying individual in- 
dependence, undermines national. Italy, the fountain-head of 

* These conversions, be it noted, are chiefly from the Church of Eng- 
land, which has features of likeness to that of Rome. To weak minds, 
or to those that to a sensuous quality of intellect unite a peculiar senti- 
mental organization, the transition from Anglicanism to Romanism is logical. 


Catholicism, where Protestantism is proscribed under penalty 
of imprisonment or death, has been for centuries a prey to the 
foreigner. Portugal, as Catholic as Italy, the favorite torture- 
house of the Inquisition, is a dependence of Protestant England. 
Spain, where by a late concordat the ban against Protestantism 
has been renewed, is so helpless, that she had within thirty years 
to call in a French army under the Due d'Angouleme to uphold 
the tottering Bourbon throne, and having lost nearly all her im- 
mense colonies, is now obliged to appeal to England and France 
to prevent the last remaining one from falling into our hands. 
Poland, — blotted from the list of nations. Austria, — saved lately 
from destruction by the sword of Russia. Ireland, — compare 
Ireland with Scotland. France, vigorous, independent France, 
has not only four or five millions of Protestants, but how many 
millions besides of Voltairiens, until lately, when Skepticism, 
which is by the nature of man short-lived, having passed away. 
Socialism, or a belief in man involving a deeper belief in God, is 
begetting a higher Christianity than has yet animated Christendom, 
— a Christianity destined to be far more fruitful than ever was 
the theological, the which however is now everywhere almost as 
good as dead. 

But deeper and stronger than either, than Catholicism, than 
Protestantism, both perishable, is the imperishable Christian prin- 
ciple of liberty, the quenchless longing for absolute mental free- 
dom. Protestantism was the assertion of this principle against 
the usurpation of Rome. It was a conflict for truth, but not 
itself the broadest truth, that it could not be ; a struggle for 
emancipation, but not itself the largest liberty, that it could not 
be. It quickly put bounds to its own essence, the right of private 
judgment, of free inquiry ; it narrowed itself to is?}is. It is not 
universal in its embrace ; it is partial, and thus runs into Secta- 
rianism. It has no Pope, but it has creeds ; it has no monasteries, 
but it has theological seminaries ; it has no independent hierarchy 


(except in England), but it has dogmatic priesthoods. In its 
churches ecclesiastical abuses are vastly mitigated, by no means 
fully abated. Protestantism has its army of priests, who are, too 
many of them, Jewish in their narrowness and their hates, and 
in their assumptions papal ; and who, if they could, would, like 
their Romish colleagues, persuade us that priests are essential to 
salvation, the very depositaries and dispensers of spiritual life, 
the indispensable bond to unite men to God. In this they serve 
themselves more than God and men. When a man places him- 
self between God and another man, he intercepts the light and 
casts a shadow upon his brother. He is a false priest who would 
make himself indispensable to men as a medium of union with 
God. The true priest aims to unfold the soul, and thus disclose 
to it its own innate powers and grandeur. 

A primary and pre-eminent element of our mental being is re- 
ligion. To say of a man, lie is without religion, is as much non- 
sense as to say he is without lungs. Breathing is not more 
essential to the physical life than is to the moral a recognition of 
the Infinite, a reverential consciousness of the Absolute and Un- 
speakable. So sophisticated are men's minds by one-sided teach- 
ings, that they come to regard religion as a something they get 
from the priest, a spiritual treasure guarded and dispensed by the 
priesthood. At stated periods they go to Church to receive their 
share of it, like stockholders to the Bank to draw their dividends. 
They have made an investment in the Church and leave the 
management thereof to the priests, who pay them in prayers, 
sermons and liturgies. In this way forms usurp the place of sub- 
stance, dead material husk of spiritual kernel. 

As are the temperament and the moral and intellectual wants 
of a people so are its divinities, who are modified, aye moulded, 
by the mental characteristics of each. Hence the difference 
between the Gods of the Greeks and the God of the Hebrews, be- 
tween the worship of the Hindoo and that of the African. Men 


can only conceive God according to their own capacities. To 
tlie low man ever a low God. As individual nnen in their nar- 
rowness would have other men like themselves, so aggregate 
men, men in tribes and nations make God like man. Anthro- 
pomorphism is the egotism of unemancipated humanity. Through 
culture and moral enlargement we attain to the conception of 
he vitalizing omnipresent Deity as incorporeal essence. As 
man rises, the Deity shines the more purely upon his heart, God 
and man exalting one another. To the upstriving man the Deity 
holds out a helping hand, ascending ever higher and higher, the 
more and more effulgent with intellect and love as man mounts 
after him towards the centre of Liberty and 'Truth, the eternal 
home of the infinite Good. 

Jesus, an inmate of this heavenly home, from the depths of his 
large soul proclaimed the law of love, justice, unity. This 
solemn, momentous proclamation has remained a prolific abstrac- 
tion, kept present to the human soul by the inborn need of its ful- 
filment. Only in Jesus himself burnt purely the light of his 
revelation. The Apostles his agents were tainted with Judaism. 
And soon the spirit of priestcraft, which had crucified Jesus, took 
possession of his doctrine and soiled it. It is not yet purged of 
the soiling. The God of priestcraft is a God of wrath, inspiring 
fear more than love, a priest-made God to serve priestly ends of 
dominion ; gloomy, revengeful, the oppressor not the liberator of 
humanity, whose messengers are oftener devils than angels. Do 
you purify man by defiling God with cruelty ? By abasing man 
do you exalt God ? Do you strengthen the heart by compressing 
it into intolerant creeds, do you shelter it under mystic imagina- 
tions ? Out of trite fancies and sour sensibilities you would build 
up Deity, and present as the Infinite the image they make on 
your finite brains. In flimsy phrases you would word the Un- 
speakable, in fleeting vesture clothe the Eternal, and then you 
solemnly declare the outcome of these your theological inventions 


to be God, and summon us to worship as the Creator this your 
dwarfish misshapen creature. 

What profit hath the soul from these degradations of Deity ? 
Is it not akin to image- worship, this petrifaction of fallible inter- 
pretations into staunch creeds ? Beams from the central Light 
deflected through Judaic imaginations, can they retain any 
warmth for the 19th century ? What knowledge or nourishment 
is there now in these ancient aspirations ? Is spiritual life re- 
plenished by feeding more on the man-made than the God-made ? 
This temple built with hands, what is it to the sanctuary within 
the heart ? This formal conned ritual, what is it to the spontane- 
ous aspiration of the soul ? What are your loud prayers and 
hymns to the voiceless communion with the Infinite ? The silence 
of a Church is voiceful to the solemnity of a man's conscience ! 
Your altars, your surplices, your mitres, your cathedrals, your 
consecrations, all are but verbiage and stitch work and brickwork, 
ostentatious, transitory, in face of the eternal self-renewing life, 
the deep sacredness of the soul of man. Protestantism, one-sided 
and short-coming as it is, was the rehallowing of this desecrated 
sanctuary, the reassertion of this unacknowledged sacredness. 
The Reformation of the 16th century rescued men from much of 
their captivity to priesthood. It shattered many of the bars that 
made churches prisons. It is an illuminated phasis in the his- 
tory of liberty, of Christian deliverance. 

^ The light then kindled in a few souls now shines over Chris- 
tendom. From the door of the humble church in Wittemberg, 
where it was first set up, that light spread from land to land, from 
generation to generation, vivifying and fortifying wherever it fell, 
so that at the present day those nations that opened their hearts 
the widest to its rays are the foremost on the earth. But from it, 

* Chapters xi. and xii. were delivered as a " Lecture on Protestantism" in 
Newport, R. I., in January last. On that occasion this concluding para- 
graphs was added. 


all ihc peoples of Christendom, those who are struggling to 
achieve, as well as those who possess liberty, be they Catholic or 
Protestant, chiefly draw their animation. Whether in America, 
where to the disenthralling, life-cherishing principles of the 
Reformation* we owe the best of what we have done, of what we 
are, of what we have, including the privilege so happily habitual 
among us that we forget its value, the privilege I at this moment 
use of publicly speaking on things of universal interest my hon- 
est thought, without fear of gaol or gibbet ; — whether in stead- 
fast England, the mighty mother of nations, who owes so much 
of her might to her protestantism, and to her truth-loving heart 
that made her accept it, where together with an obsolete aristoc- 
racy and an unspiritualized church, a load of dull Dukes and 
carnal Bishops, there is a fund of large manhood and freedom ; — 
whether in France, where by means of tyrannical centralization 
and military organization, both inherited from monarchy, a pigmy 
miscreant has just been enabled to enact a gigantic crime against 
a long-suffering but never disheartened nation ; — whether in Ger- 
many, where protestant princes, faithless alike to God and man, 
are foully leagued with Jesuits and Cossacks to cheat and berob 
an enlightened, temperate, and too trustful people of what is 
dearest in life, a patient people, too, but who now knowing and 
valuing their rights, give their robbers their hate, biding the time, 
which must soon come, when they can give them their ven- 
geance ; — whether in Italy, bleeding, beautiful Italy, where in 
the north the brutal Austrian vainly strives to trample out man- 
hood with the soldier's heel, where in the south the Bourbon, 
fanatic in ferocity, slaughters men like cattle, where in the cen- 
tre, in majestic Rome, the Arch-despot of the world blasphemously 
calls himself the vicar of Christ, while, seated on a throne built 
of foreign bayonets fleshed in the breasts of his subjects, he gives 
one hand of fellowship to the man-shaped tiger of Naples, and the 
* See note at the end of the Chapter. 


other to the perjured traitor of France, and, encircled by greedy, 
lowering Cardinals, whose red robes are dyed redder in their 
brothers' blood, he hearkens for the secret curses of his awakened 
people, who ceaselessly lust for the blood of their oppressors, and 
ceaselessly sigh for freedom, having learnt their cruelty from 
their priests, and their aspirations from their own hearts. — Wher- 
ever the breath of freedom swells healthfully in man's breast, or 
gasps painfully in sobs and sighs ; wherever men possess, or are 
striving for the blessings of freedom, not one in any land of 
Christendom, whether Catholic or Protestant, not one of these 
many, many millions but ow^es much of what he has, or of the will 
and courage to desire and to dare, much of his richest inheritance 
or his noblest resolution, to the poor German miner's son, to the 
moral boldness, the intellectu^al might of Martin Luther. 


In a Lecture entitled " The Catholic Chapter in the History 
of the United States," delivered in New York in March 1852, 
Archbishop Hughes says, — " It is altogether untrue to assert that 
this is a Catholic country, or a Protestant country. It is neither. 
It is a land of religious freedom and equality." General usage 
justifies the calling of a people Catholic or Protestant, according 
as a large majority of its inhabitants belong to the one or the 
other of these religious divisions. Thus, southern Germany is 
called Catholic, northern Germany Protestant ; Ireland Catholic, 
England Protestant. The United States, where only a fraction, 
about one tenth, of the population, is Catholic, are called, there- 
fore, Protestant. But, apart from common parlance, what strictly 
authorizes a designation is, the principle which rules a country 
in religious matters. By this logical test, the United States are 


thoroughly Protestant, and the Pope's dominions in Italy thor- 
oughly Catholic. In the United States, there are absolute re- 
ligious tolerance and liberty ; in papal Italy, constraint and ab- 
solute religious intolerance. Absolute intolerance is a fundamen- 
tal Catholic doctrine, which is not merely preached but severely 
practised, as the world knows ; and practised not only against 
Italians, but also against strangers, so that American Protestants, 
while in Rome, are not permitted to meet together for public 
worship ; such outlaws and damnable heretics are they regarded 
by Pope and Cardinals. In this country, on the contrary, not 
only is there absolute religious tolerance, but so productive is this 
high Christian principle, that even Romish prelates here are 
obliged to avow it, in the teeth of the theory and practice at head- 
quarters. Thus Archbishop Hughes, in this Lecture, " hopes 
that it will remain a land of religious freedom and equality to 
the latest posterity." On other occasions he has made like dec- 
larations. These avowals have no significance as signs of the 
wishes and purposes of an Archbishop ; for Catholic prelates ex- 
ercise — especially, we presume, when dealing with heretics — a 
right of mental reservation, which paralyzes any positive inter- 
pretation that the ingenuous might put on their w^ords, and is 
probably large in proportion to the hierarchical elevation of the 
dignitary. But they have significance, as showing w^hat is the 
power of Protestantism here, and what a very Protestant country 
Archbishop Hughes thinks it, that he, a nominee of the Pope, 
drawing from Rome his archiepiscopal breath, should feel obliged 
to reiterate so unpapal, so uncatholic a sentiment, the which he 
would no more utter in Rome than he would there laud Luther 
or deny purgatory. 

" If," cays the lecturer, " there had been only one form of 
Protestantism professed in all the colonies, I fear mucn that even 
with Washington at their head, the Constitution would not have 
been what it is in regard to religious liberty." But it is the very 


nature of Protestantism, when it 1ms free play, to break a people 
up into many sects. The essence of Protestantism is the right of 
private judgment in religious belief, which right leads unavoida- 
bly and healthfully to multiplication of creeds. Protestantism is 
a protest against sacerdotal dominion, and the assertion of indi- 
vidual religious independence. It frees men from the yoke of 
priesthood ; it empowers every man to define his own creed, to 
choose, or to be, his own priest. This, the fundamental principle 
of Protestantism; involves absolute religious liberty. That Prot- 
estant sects and men have violated this principle, proves only the 
fallibility of men, but shakes not the foundations of the principle 
itself. However uncharitable some sects in this country may 
have been, or may be, in their feelings towards each other, a 
higher law controls them — the law of Protestant freedom, which, 
if not complete, goes yet to the extent of guaranteeing to each 
man immunity from interference of State or Church, against his 
will, in his religious profession. Granting that the multiplicity 
of sects led to tliis general tolerance ; the multiplicity of sects is 
the robust offspring of Protestantism, and by its excess here 
proves, that this country is ultra-protestant. 

In a " Catholic Chapter in the History of the United States," 
Maryland would of course not be omitted. What right has Arch- 
bishop Hughes to say " Catholic Maryland," he who a few pages 
before asserts that this country is neither Protestant nor Catholic ? 
If this country was not at first and is not now Protestant, how can 
Maryland be called Catholic ? Among the first colonists of Mary- 
land there were Protestants, as there were Catholics among the 
first colonists of the other provinces. The proportion of Protes- 
tants in the Maryland colony was at any time as large as that of 
Catholics in all the other colonies, or in the United States, after 
their independence. With his own words we contradict Arch- 
bishop Hughes' designation, and say, that Maryland " was neither 
Catholic nor Protestant. It was a land of religious freedom and 
equality." — And as such it was in its birth eminently uncatholic. 

6G scenes and thoughts in EUROPE. 

To learn what the Catholic view of a subject is, we must go to 
Rome, to the Pope who appoints the Archbishops Hughes, to the 
Cardinals who appoint the Pope. Rome is the fountain of all 
Catholic doctrine. Now we find that in Rome, at present, and at 
the time that Maryland was founded, and at all times, nothing is 
more abominated than this very religious liberty. " I will not, 
by myself or any other, directly or indirectly, molest any person 
professing to believe in Jesus Christ, for or in respect of religion." 
Such was the oath prescribed by Lord Baltimore for the Governor 
of his Maryland. Did he get that from Rome ? Does the Pope 
prescribe such an oath for the Governor of his Rome ? Papist 
or the dungeon of the Inquisition, that is the alternative of the na- 
tive Roman. Torture or death awaits him who there presumes 
to exercise what Lord Baltimore fully and formally granted, — 
freedom of conscience. Not even can strangers there worship 
after their choice. Let a score of Maryland Protestants try it 
within the walls of Rome ; they will find that they dare not even 
meet together to say their prayers. They will not be indirectly, 
but most " directly molested," lest by their Protestant commu- 
nion the capital of Catholicism be desecrated, and Pope and Car- 
dinals insulted and scandalized.* And yet Rome's bemitred 
minions here, claim the founding of Maryland as Roman Catho- 
lic work ! — If a Quaker were to forget the precepts of his religion, 
and take to swearing and fisticuffs, would the odium of his aber- 
ration fall on the whole " Society of Friends," or only on the 
exceptional member ? If a lawgiver inserts in his code a clause 
in flat conflict with a fundamental dogma, an inflexible maxim, of 
the church to which he belongs, a clause the directly opposite of 
which finds place in the code of that church itself; in after-years, 
when this clause turns out to have been wise and creditable, is 
the church to claim the merit thereof, and that too when her own 
practice is still as hostile as ever to the very principle embodied 
in that clause ? As the Quaker, for his unquakerly conduct is 



read out of meeting, so Lord Baltimore, for his official un papal 
religious tolerance, would doubtless, — but for worldly considera- 
tions, — have been sentenced to do penance or to pay a round sum 
for absolution, if even he had not been excommunicated. For 
the sin of liberality (although only verbal and calculated) in this 
lecture and other similar occasions, Archbishop Hughes has, I 
dare say, penitently to mortify the flesh, or else be absolved (be- 
forehand probably) by the Italian Prince, his master. 

The original Constitution of Maryland, drafted by the Pro- 
prietor, was the work of a clear-headed, large-hearted man, — a 
man so strong, that, in founding a state so early as the beginning 
of the seventeenth century, he put at its basis the broad human 
rights of civil and religious liberty, — a man so Christian, that 
the unchristian intolerance of even the Church he had chosen, 
did not taint his heart. If the King who endowed him with this 
domain on the Chesapeake did, as has been sunnised, as a Prot- 
estant, exact religious tolerance in the organization of the new 
government, Lord Baltimore, if this tolerance had been unpal- 
atable to him, would have applied for lands to the King of 
Spain or of Portugal ; and these " most Catholic" sovereigns 
would eagerly have granted to one so honored in England as 
he was, a choice tract in their rich American possessions ; and 
there he could have established himself, like his neighbors, to 
his Catholic heart's content, in severest Catholic exclusiveness. 
But the papist was not uppermost in Lord Baltimore's nature, 
and therefore he had not recourse to Spain or to Portugal, and he 
sought not help of the Pope. The liberal clauses of his charter, 
so hostile to the spirit of Romanism, and so deservedly celebrated 
in history, were dictated by his own high human feelings ; and 
no heretic-cursing Pope, no ambitious sophistical Archbishop, has 
claim to a tittle of his noble deed. The illustrious founder of 
iVIaryland belongs not to their side, but to the opposite one of 
humanity and freedom ; and to him their eulogy is no honor. 




In the evening the company at the supper-table of the " Half- 
Moon," in Eisenach, was enlivened by the news, just arrived 
from Cassel, ofthe flight of the Duke. It was the opening act 
of the Hesse-Cassel political melodrama, which afterwards ended 
unmelodramatically with the triumph of the guilty and the fall 
ofthe innocent. Except that the end is not yet, and will only 
be after that the whirlwind, — which ere long w^ill envelop all 
Germany in gloom and terror, — shall have passed over, and from 
the bosom of the enfranchised people shall have arisen a higher 
justice than has ever yet presided over German affairs. 

As I have generally found this summer at German Inns, — 
except those of fashionable watering-places, — the majority ofthe 
little circle at the '' Half-Moon" was democratic. The discussion 
of the doings in Cassel was conducted with vivacity, but with 
good temper. One of the speakers was the head-waiter, who, 
without either forwardness or timidity, took part in the conver- 
sation, and expressed moderate opinions in good language, per- 
forming at the same time his duties round the table with watch- 
fulness and alacrity. The spirit of the great Wartburg pris- 
oner, that animates so many millions all over the globe, had 
made a man of this humble servant. 

The traveller through Eisenach should take two or three hours; 


— whether he has them to spare or not, — to visit Annadale. 
After a drive of two miles through a beautiful valley, you enter 
on foot a narrow winding gorge, whose rocky sides are embow- 
ered by overhanging trees, under which you walk on a gravel 
path not wide enough for two abreast. But what constitutes the 
peculiar beauty of the place, and marks it as a unique natural 
curiosity, is the fine moss on the rocks, covering them as com- 
pletely and as smoothly as if silk velvet had been carefully fitted 
on them by feminine fingers, and kept of the most vivid green by 
the shade of the forest and the moisture from springs. 

It is a place to tell fairy tales in. With such poetry before the 
senses, the mind growls fantastic. So much beauty should not 
be wasted on solitude ; it solicits you to people it. One can 
readily conceive how an imaginative race like the Germans 
should, in their robust youth, have populated the dells of their 
virgin forests with fays and fairies. These attended the Saxons 
to England, where Shakspeare by adopting, after educating them, 
has given them an everlasting home. 

Of the safety wherewith traditions travel down through many 
generations, with no other vehicle than the tongues of nurses 
and grandmothers, I had, while a student at Gottingen, a remark- 
able exemplification. One of the Grimms had just published a 
collection of children's stories all gathered by himself from the 
mouths of aged women, — chiefly in the Hartz Mountains- In 
looking through them I came upon one that was in its minute 
and absurd particulars precisely the same tale that I had heard 
as a child in America. A thousand years ago it had gone over 
to England, had there lived from mouth to mouth through thirty 
generations, had then traversed the Atlantic and dwelt for two 
hundred years near the shores of the Chesapeake, and now, 
brought thence packed away in the memory of an American, back 
to its starting-place, was found, after having changed its vesture 
from Gothic to Anglo-Saxon, and from Anglo-Saxon to English, 


to matcli as accurately a tale now for the first time printed, as 
one proof-sheet does another taken from the same form of types. 
In rude Gothic the two had parted more than ten centuries ago, 
and now met, the one in German, the other in English, and in 
the many vicissitudes of that long separation, neither had changed 
a feature. 

It were curious to seek the origin of these tales in the East. 
The affinities of language and similarities in many words point to 
the neighborhood of the Caspian Sea as the cradle of the German 
tribes. To some of the many inquisitive travellers, who are eager 
for new fields of exploration, here is a captivating enterprise, to 
penetrate to that region and bring away the popular and nursery 
tales as philological and ethnographical treasures. 

Tradition and researches do not entirely concur with the Mo- 
saic record in placing the origin of man in the East. Yet it 
were not unreasonable to suppose that man first appeared in the 
highlands of Asia because there the Earth was first humanly 
habitable. From what is now observed and known, we are au- 
thorized to infer, that the whole surface of the Earth was not at 
once put in condition to be the abode of man. Asia may have 
been first ready, and America or Australia last, perhaps thou- 
sands of years later. 

Facts justify the line of Bishop Berkeley that 

Westward the marcli of Empire takes its course, 

shifting its seat as the streams of population, — of white popula- 
tion, — pouring down from the centre of Asia towards its western 
confines and Europe, grew stronger and clearer the further they 
advanced. From Asia the march of Empire was to Greece, and 
thence to Italy, and from Italy still further westward to Spain, 
France, England. Driving ever westward, population followed 
Columbus across the stormy Atlantic, and founded on its Ameri- 
can shore an Empire that will as much exceed England in power 


as England does Rome in Rome's proudest day, and as Rome 
herself did the Assyrian monarchy in its broadest mao^nificence. 
But America had already been peopled. This population, com- 
ing out of Asia eastward, was met and driven back again towards 
Asia by that which came out of Asia through Europe westward, 
and is destined to be extinguished by the latter. 

That it is a law of Nature that migration should ^^go with the 
sun,*' we have startling proof in this fact, that the aboriginal in- 
habitants of America, who in peopling that Continent had violated 
this law, are thus thrust back by those who obeyed it. This, it 
may be said, is only the superior white subjecting the inferior 
brown race. In India too the white man has subjected the brown, 
but he has not overflowed his territory and displaced him. The 
British and Dutch Indies are held by a handful of whites through 
military possession. So the English, who have set an armed foot 
in China, may subdue it as they have subdued Hindostan. But 
the peopling of the eastern shore of Asia with swarms from the 
great white hive, is to take place by migration westward, that is, 
from Oregon and California. 

The strong, the white race, streamed westward ; the western 
Asiatics are to this day white. Those who from the region which 
according to Oriental tradition is given as the starting- place of 
mankind went eastward, the Chinese, the Siamese, the Japanese, 
belong to the inferior brown and yellow races. It may be object- 
ed that all having originated from one stock, the difference of 
color was caused by climate, food, water and other external influ- 
ences. The force of these influences is undeniable ; but ad- 
mitting, what is by no means demonstrated, that the parents of the 
whole human family were a single couple, their color must re- 
main a mystery ; and therefore we cannot know whether climate 
re-changed brown to white in Western Asia and Europe, or white 
to brown and black in Eastern Asia and Africa.* 
. * A recent French writer, M. Henri Lecouturier, in a remarkable work, 


Color, in races, is not a mere outward cutaneous painting by 
the sun, but comes from within, from the blood. That long action 
of tlie sun with other outward agencies will change the quality 
of the blood, may be believed. But a strong race may carry 
within itself the vigor to resist and even to reverse the effect of 
these ai^encies. In finrure the AnMo-Saxons in America have as- 

entitled Cosmosophie ou le Socialism Universel, endeavors by an ingenious 
exposition to prove, that the birth-place of man was in the Polar region. 
According to his deduction the first man was black and covered with hair, 
and like certain tribes still found in Africa, was nearer to the Ourang Ou- 
tang than to the white man. Towards the Poles, it was that the Earth first 
became cool enough to be habitable ; and when man first appeared, the 
climate there was as warm as it now is under the Equator, while that of the 
temperate and torrid zones was so hot as to be uninhabitable. With the 
receding of the Ecliptic, — which at first extended over the whole ninety 
degrees, — and the corresponding receding of the focal fires within the 
Earth, the cooling of the surface, which began at the Poles, extended 
gradually to the temperate zone. At the same time the polar region grew 
cooler and cooler, and the first men, adapted to the greater warmth, followed 
it and gradually approached the equator, in the heats of which their de- 
scendants are now found in Africa. 

His hypothesis is, that the first man was preceded by the monkey, who 
went before him also in migrating towards the equatorial region, where he 
is still found. As the monkey left man behind him, so the first race of 
black hairy men left superior men their descendants behind themselves, 
the race improving in color and quality with the cooling of the Earth and 
the purification of its zones, until, after many ages of successive migrations, 
the inferior breeds following the heat and the superior taking their place, 
the whole Earth w^as peopled, and the highest types were found in the 
temperate zone and the lowest in the torrid. 

The genealogy of man, says M. Lecouturier, may be learnt by beginning 
with the present occupants at the tropical regions and going northward. 
The most advanced will be found in the temperate zone, and the most back- 
ward, that is, the primitive and oldest races, in the torrid. For a general 
classification he divides the human family into three races, the lowest, the 
middle, and the highest; the Ethiopian, the Mongolian and the Caucasian; 
each embracing several varieties. 

The Finns, Laplanders and Esquimaux, a stunted and misshapen race 
living on the borders of the Arctic circle, are remains of the primitive races, 
who refused to follow the current that drew them towards the warm lati- 
tudes. Philological researches have shown such an afiinity between the 
Finns and the Hungarians, that Berghaus puts them down on his Ethno- 


similated somewhat to the North American Indians ; but who 
would thence conclude, that they are to grow downward to them ? 
On two races so wide apart as these, the one having an organiza- 
tion so superior to that of the other, is it not reasonable to pre- 
sume, that external influences, telluric and solar, magnetic and 
material, might act with opposite effects, weakening the weaker 
race and strengthening the stronger ; and that thus, while the 
Europeans in North America, under the above influences, should 
come to resemble in some minor characteristics the natives, the 
gulf between them would in the main be widened, and the original 
organic superiority of the white race be not only maintained but 
augmented ? 

This proclivity of man, or rather of the white race, westward, — 
exhibited in subordinate movements as well as in the great cardi- 
nal migrations, — would seem to proceed from an instinct that 
harmonizes men unconsciously with the order of Nature. West- 
ward is the path forward, the path of progress. Conservatism 
looks backward, that is, eastward. Thus at this moment, princes 
in Germany look with hope to Russia, in Spain to Rome ; the 
People, with a deeper intuition, to America, and themselves. On 
the other hand, Russia dreams of another Scythian invasion, and 
Rome is straining to get command of the advanced guard of hu- 
manity in America, — which she will do when printing shall be 
there prohibited as the abettor of crime, and steam suppressed as 
a disturber of the public peace, and the reasoning faculty pro- 
scribed as an obstacle to virtue, — a prohibition, suppression, and 
proscription practised in the papal dominions, and which the pa- 
ternal chiefs of the Roman Church are making a last agonizing 

graphical maps as belong:ing to the same tribe, thus confirming the opinion 
of M. Lecouturier, who says, the handsome valorous Maygars are directly 
descended from the poor emaciated dwarfs of the polar regions. 

This curious theory of the peopling of the Earth is not in contradiction 
with the westward migrations, which only commenced with the white race, 
that is, after that all the zones of the earth were peopled. 


effort to perpetuate by means of the dungeon, the hangman, and 
Louis Bonaparte. In the great capitals, London, Paris, Berlin, 
New York, the west is the chosen quarter. Is this accidental, or 
is it not an undesigned, instinctive conformity to the saying, 
"The devil take the hindmost?" a saying, the significance and 
sad truth of which, few people suspect. 

But it is time for us to obey the westward law, and move to- 
wards the Rhine. 



On the way back to Frankfort, we stopped for the night at 
Giessen. It w^ould have been a satisfaction to have availed my- 
self of the genial accessibility of German professors, to visit 
Liebig, one of the stoutest living scientific pioneers, — one of the 
precocious band that with the sharp edge of thought are hewing 
for their fellow-men paths into untrodden domains, — one of that 
bold brotherhood of discoverers who, in the holy privacy of the 
laboratory and the closet, reveal new truths by light struck from 
the contact of genius with Nature. But we arrived late and tired. 
I did not see a famous captain in the great army of progress, but 
at the public table of the inn I saw a private working in the cause 
of conservatism, with a zeal and capacity that made me wonder. 
This was a supper-eater, who in order to conserve his body and 
soul tightly together during the night, transmitted through the 
portal of the human temple, his mouth, into the mysterious labora- 
tory of life, the following articles of food, each in unstinted por- 
tions, and in the order here named : — 1st course — fried potatoes, 
sausages, sourcrout, cold tongue ; 2d course — stewed pigeon, 
pudding, roast pig, cheese with bread and butter. For a man 
with a weak digestion, it was dangerous, just before bed-time, to 
" assist," as the French say, at the piling up into one stomach of 
this huge heterogeneous bulk ; for the bare image of it on his 
sleeping brain might be enough to cause nightmare. 


No matter how often you may have seen the Rhine, to 

come upon it is always an event. The renowned river is a line 
of beauty traced on the globe by Nature, and embellished by man. 
On its shores I have dwelt so much, so pleasantly, and so profita- 
bly, that whenever I return to them they give me the glad greet- 
ing of a home. 

To go back to old haunts is a reduplication of life. With the 
skipping actualities of the fretful present mingle the silent memo- 
ries of the past, like marble statues looking upon a market-place. 
As we came down the Rhine, we bade the docile boat turn in 
again to the pier of venerable Boppart, that during the latter days 
of September we might tarry within the walls of the solid, fa- 
miliar, roomy, old convent of Marienberg. A return to its gardens, 
its corridors, its terraces, we enjoyed the more, because we were 
not now, as in years past, to work hard for bodily salvation with 
aid of its healing waters. 

What perverse children of Nature we are. She gives us 
health, we quickly set about to turn her gift into disease ; she 
promises abundance, we choose to stay poor ; she offers us pala- 
ces, we burrow in hovels. In all things we are unnatural ; in 
eating, in drinking, in our outgoings and incomings, in our labors 
and our pleasures, in politics, in religion, in medicine. Under 
the spell of a cajoling conceit, we build up codes that are false, 
and then maintain them by sophistry and force. Most of our life 
is a kicking against the pricks. For our weal we should be al- 
ways naturalists. Nature contains, is the law. Whether his 
work be rare or daily, high or low, Nature is every man's mis- 
tress, and teacher, and helper. From the ploughman to the poet, 
the task is well done in proportion as she mixes in the doing. 
Wherein lies the excellence of Shakspeare, of Goethe, of Burns, 
of Wordsworth, of Moliere, as well as of Galileo and Newton, 
as well as of Fulton and Priesnitz ? In their greater fidelity to 
Nature. They are deeper and broader naturalists. 


The discovery of the power there is in water as a curative 
agent, was made by Priesnitz twenty-five years ago. Since that, 
the methods of its application have been scientifically improved 
and multiplied. Trials in acute diseases, and in all curable 
chronic ones, a thousand times repeated, have proved its efficacy. 
And yet this truth, so large and simple and fruitful, this balm- 
laden truth, is accepted by but a fraction of reading, reasoning 
white men. Custom, prejudice, interest, routine, timidity, con- 
spire to retard its acknowledgment. The poisoning pill-box and 
life-draining lancet, keep on decimating and maiming the race. 
*' Business before truth," is one of the mottoes of civilization, and so 
the blood-and-drug doctors continue in trade, and out of nature. 

But let us seek comfort in retrospection. A hundred years 
ago the discovery of Priesnitz, like other discoveries that too 
far outrun their age, had probably died in its cradle. Men do 
reason more than they used to ; knowledge does circulate more 
briskly and widely ; truth has some service of the electric tele- 

The choice spots of the globe for lounging, the one in 

winter and spring, the other in summer and early autumn, are 
the Boulevards of Paris and the Rhine ; the one the work of man 
assisted by nature, the other the work of nature enriched by 
man ; for a fog or a rain disenchants the Boulevards, and with- 
out its towns and villages and castles and man-movement on 
flood and shore, the Rhine were not the Rhine. In midsummer 
the valleys that run back draw you into their shades ; later, yon 
quit the stream for the heights ; but always the zest of the walk 
is when you issue out again upon the river, and to saunter along 
its margin is what one does oftenest. If you are alone, you have 
company in the peasantry tilling or gathering in the precious 
narrow slopes between the water and the precipice, in the way- 
farers on the smooth road, in the white-shining villages on either 
shore, in the old castles that solemnly address you from rock- 


founded eminences like spectres half-])rotruded from their tombs, 
in the freight-craft and the persevering Jiorses that drag them 
against the swift current, in the steam-driven boats that queen it 
over the river they have conquered, and in the old river him- 
self, a companion of infinite resources, of unfading freshness. 
Should you wish to rest, and from prudence prefer an indoor 
seat to one on a pile of macadamized stones, you enter the quiet 
inn of a village and call, not for a half-bottle of wine, but for a 
*• spezialen." A ** spezialen" is a small tumbler-full, and costs 
a groschen, about two and a half cents. This, for the privilege 
of resting, an hour if you choose, even should the chair-bottom 
be of walnut, is cheap, — provided you don't drink the wine. If 
you are thirsty, drink grapes, and I know not a more epicurean 
contrivance than to walk yourself into a summer thirst of a Sep- 
tember afternoon on the Rhine, and then at sunset to be turned 
into a vineyard to slake it with purple bunches fast plucked 
with your own hand from the stalk. 

The Rhine ! The Rhine ! so sweet he smells 

When buds the perfumed grape in June. 
Still dearer is his shade when swells 

The rippling breeze at summer's noon. 
But dearest when young Autumn's Sun 

Wipes the late dew from purpled vine, 
And pours his ripening heats upon 

The spicy juice of pendant wine. 



Railroads and Commerce have put new life under the dying 
ribs of Cologne. The lazy, dirty old town, that fifty years ago 
offended the nostrils of Coleridge to the point of versification, has 
grown busy, and thence more cleanly. Whoever has the les- 
thetic sense would be robbed of a rightful enjoyment, if in passing 
through Cologne even for the twentieth time he were not allowed 
to stop, just to breathe for a few moments under the shadow of 
the Cathedral, the atmosphere of sublimity wherein that mighty 
torso of architectural art isolates itself. This is one of those 
great objects that so swell the mind with high emotion that pos- 
session eclipses hope. In this presence we are satisfied ; our 
contentment with the hour is brimming ; we are not driven for- 
ward or backward into time to fill the void we carry about in us. 
For mostly, the now is so flat and sour, that, horsed on the winged 
steeds of memory or of imagination, we fly to the far past or 
further future, to seek the pleasure we find not in the dull world 
we have built, and built with splendid materials, like senseless 
architects, who erecting a Palace should hide their marble and 
Mosaics in the foundation, and show above-ground only burnt clay 
and painted pine. 

The pleasures of memory and imagination are satires on pres- 
ent life, which is so poor, that we are forever running away from 
it, and betaking ourselves to the deceased past and the unborn 


future. In childhood we sigh for the stature and exemptions of 
youth ; in youth we count the years and months that bar us from 
the liberties of manhood ; in manhood we strain forward towards 
age on the untiring hack, Ambition ; in maturity we strive to 
comfort ourselves with reminiscences of youth and childhood, that 
come back upon us like chiding cherubs. We are always hur- 
rying out of to-day to get into to-morrow. We would subordinate 
this world to the next, and we employ at great cost a numei'ous 
class to teach us to give precedence to the world to come. We 
drink, and smoke, and read novels, to stave off the pressing hour. 
We thus make time our enemy instead of our ally — time, the 
flapping of whose wings are the pulses of universal life, whose 
hours are the foot-prints of forward-marching Eternity, and mark 
the unresting labors of the all-sustaining God ; labors, which it is 
our transcendent privilege to share, so prodigally, so divinely are 
we endowed. 

Diisseldorf is an hour by railroad below Cologne, a neat, 

shady town, noted for its school of Art. A small city such as 
Diisseldorf, which becomes the seat of artists, pictures itself to 
you like one of those fine engraved heads of Poets encircled with 
a laurel garland. It stands in your mind crowned with the sym- 
bol of poetic triumph. The art-element, is not here, as in large 
capitals, an ingredient commingled and diluted with other supe- 
riorities ; it reigns in sole sovereignty, a sovereignty as benignant 
as that of light over darkness. Here are assembled a hundred 
men who have dedicated themselves to Beauty. To incarnate 
the spirit that pervades the two worlds, the world opened to ocu- 
lar sense and that revealed to the eye of the mind, this is their 
life's thought, aim, desire, act. Through Nature and History, 
through all lands and activities, through the densities of the real, 
and the sunny pomps of the ideal, wherever thought or sense can 
stretch, they range in chase of Beauty, who flies from them as 
the maiden from the wooer whose love she would quicken by her 


coyness. Wherever a high deed has been done, wherever men 
have sacrificed themselves for mankind, wherever the higher lav/ 
has gained a victory, wherever through the impulses of generous 
natures poetry has become act, wherever the countenance of His- 
tory is agitated by great changes, there the artists gather. From 
the flowers of being they suck food for the nurture of their souls, 
that they may fulfil their high function, which is, to second God 
in keeping the world replenished with beauty. 

The work-rooms of artists are among the pleasant places of the 
earth ; they are green spots in our desert of prosaic life. In 
them you get the repose of disinterested sensations. You are 
drawn out of your little self into your large self. You are, more- 
over, as guest, in the happiest position towards the host ; you par- 
take of a double, nay, a threefold hospitality ; for the man wel- 
comes you, and the artist entertains you, and the picture greets 
you, it may be with a peal of celestial clarions. Between the 
artist and his creation is a privileged standpoint ; through you he 
sends his thought to his work, which on its part beams with its 
fullest light in its master's presence. You stand as when gazing 
at a dewy landscape, and behind you the rising sun that has just 
brought it out of darkness. 

After the day's work, the painters at Diisseldorf assemble 
towards evening in a garden on the edge of the town. The re- 
laxation of fencing, and archery, and tenpins, in the open air, is 
something ; but that each one will meet a score or two of his fel- 
lows, this is the spur that, pricking each one, drives scores to the 
daily gathering. Men are so sociable, so human ; without the 
rays from one another's faces they could not keep warm. Here 
in their club the artists chat, and drink the drink made of hops, 
which even on the Rhine is more relished than that from the 
grape, and smoke, and play at games. 

'^ Manly games," is a phrase of universal acceptation. I deny 
its fitness, and affirm, that v/hen men shall be more manly they 


will have no games. They will then have put away childish 
things. Montaigne says that " sport is the work of children." 
Fourier says, that for young and old, work may become sport. 
One of the easy miracles of scientific socialism will be to make 
men rejoice in labor, and drawing even children from play, lead 
them to seek work as the best of sports. This miracle few people 
will believe till they see it. The world is much more ready to 
accept past miracles than future. 

But Montaigne is here as shrewd as ever in his observation. 
Children play with a worklike spirit, and indeed with them play is 
creative, aiding the growth of body and mind. For adults, games 
are utterly barren, and men with bats and cues and cards in their 
hands become children without the saving unconsciousness of 
childhood. A company of Englishmen on a lawn, spending their 
breath upon cricket, is no whit more respectable than a knot of 
Germans or Frenchmen in an esiaminet, intent round a marble 
table upon a bout of dominoes. Both are excusable to that broad, 
unpriestly charity, that covers with the sweep of its unpaid abso- 
lution all delinquencies. You forgive them as you forgive the 
theft of a meal by a pauper. Under the goad of moral hunger 
they steal from Time and Labor, the trustful stewards of Nature 
and Art, the guardians and treasurers of humanity, twin partners 
of the Divine Architect and eternal prime Motor. 

To its school Diisseldorf attracts some foreign artists, among 
them our countrymen, who get quickly on the scent of a good 
thing. A distinguished German painter told me, that of a num- 
ber of young American painters whom he had known, not one 
was without talent, but that they did not study with due thorough- 
ness. Structures of art to be good and durable, have as much 
need as cotton- factories of solid foundations. Genius can no 
more dispense with labor, than the eagle can with growth ; the 
growth of genius is only through methodical application. The 
strokes of scientific work are the pulsations that carry nutriment 


to the genial germ, and make it accrescent. But genius discovers 
its own science, and finds often slow furtherance on the beaten 
roads of routine. American artists, with more boldness and free- 
dom, carry to European academies a national impatience of de- 
lays, which may make some overleap the earlier indispensable 
gradations. But these are not the most gifted, for natural gifts 
feed themselves with the best food within their reach, as infalli- 
ble in their selection as the roots of prosperous oaks. So far 
from being too self-reliant, genius has a quick faculty of absorb- 
ing and assimilating to itself the fruits of others' thoughts and 
practices. Plodding talent lags behind the pioneers and dis- 
coverers, nimble genius never. It fuses in its focal fire all things 
about it, so that, whether for beauty or for strength, they flow into 
the moulds it is fashioning. 

In the studio of an American artist of high reputation in Ger- 
many as well as in America, I had one of those pleasant sur- 
prises that quicken the pulse more healthfully than a draft of old 
wine. On entering Leutze's spacious studio I came unexpectedly 
upon his fine picture of Washington crossing the Delaware. I 
had not heard that he was at work on such a picture. My heart 
was suddenly flooded with a sublime home-feeling. In Washing- 
ton's majestic figure, the distant home, which he had done so much 
to build for me, became instantly present in a foreign land. 
What a bequest to his countrymen is this man's character. The 
great things he did are almost less than what he does. The image 
of him that grows into the mind of every young American, is a 
defence of his country as strong and steadfast now, a half-century 
since he died, as was in life his generalship and civil wisdom. 
His perpetual great presence is a national moral fortification. 

Another artist who has not wrought with the pencil but with 
a deeper instrument, was this summer living at Diisseldorf, the 
Poet Freiligrath, who having dedicated his genius to the cause 
of German emancipation, had made himself a mark iox the hate 
find persecution of a retrograde government. 



Perfect cleanliness were general perfection. A man whose 
body should be absolutely clean, always, without soil outwardly 
or inwardly, were a model man, a breathing ideal, what is often 
named but never seen — a perfect gentleman. Body and soul are 
so closely married, and so content with the bond, that strongest 
spiritualists and materialists, countertugging for centuries with 
combined might to sunder them, have not started a joint, but their 
interdependence and reciprocal benefactions continue unweakened, 
visible in all the myriad phenomena of life, their marriage being 
as indissoluble as that between man and woman, the which, under 
varying conditions, must ever be, growing freer and purer as we 
near the Utopia of perfect cleanliness. 

But mutual dependence kills not freedom ; nay, freedom is a 
product of mutual dependence. Thence, the body may be cleaner 
than the mind, and the reverse. The co-operation is not inflexi- 
bly uniform. I doubt whether the five thousand best scholars 
of Germany are bodily so clean, as the five thousand busiest bag- 
men of England. For every result there is always more than 
one cause. In the main, however, mental cleanliness precedes 
corporeal, here as elsewhere the moral element acting the mascu- 
line part, and taking the initiative. 

The more animal men are, the less have they of personal clean- 
liness. Savages are dirtier than barbarians, whose habits again 


are not acceptable to educated civilizees. Ritual ablutions, like 
those of Mahometans, are not a full substitute for the washings 
that are consequent on culture. Communities or nations that are 
stagnant, are dirty. Movement purifies men as well as air. So 
soon as a man rises from lowness, and becomes progressive, he 
grows sweeter. The same with a people. Speaking of the prac- 
tices of the Bretons in France, noted for their primitive igno- 
rance, some one reported of them that they bring their pigs into 
their houses at night; " Oh ! the dirty pigs," said Victor Hugo. 
The Brettons are supposed to be unmixed Celts, a variety of the 
white race not pre-eminent for cleanliness. 

The English are the cleanest people of Europe, a distinction 
which is not shared with their fellow-subjects, Welsh, Scotch, or 
Irish. Next come the Dutch and Belgians, whose virtue on this 
side shines most, however, in their houses and streets, so that it is 
a satisfaction to cross from Germany or from France, into Bel- 
gium. To learn that the interior condition does not match with 
the outward, one has only to sojourn for a few weeks in a small 
Belgian town. But any advance in cleanliness is grateful and 
important, and a man who wears a fresh collar and bosoi^i over a 
dirty shirt and an unwashed skin, is a better neighbor at table 
than if he had frankly exhibited his soiled linen. Nor is the Bel- 
gian neatness a false collar, it is genuine so far as it goes. 

On comino' into Belc^ium, the travellers who, witnessino^ the ac- 
tivity in Liege and in the docks of Antwerp, and beholding the 
spaded tillage of the fields, should talk only v/ith the wealthy and 
read the Independance Beige, or the Emancipation, might excusa- 
bly follow the common error that the Belgians are a very pros- 
perous people. While in 1848, their neighbors of Germany and 
France were in hot insurrection, they remained cool ; they are 
thriving and happy, and have nothing to gain by change. 

Over nations as over men, there is in our misorganized Chris- 
tendom a thick crust of hypocrisy, under which, instead of the 



sweet juices of what is ripe and healthful, are crudities and pu- 
trescence. Let us hreak this crust, and note what we find be- 
neath it in Belgium. 

The official report'" of the census, taken in 1848, makes known 
the number of families in Belgium to be 890,566, and of inhabi- 
tants 4,337,196, being about five persons to each family. 

The habitations of these 890,566 families contain 2,758,966 
rooms, including cellars and inhabited garrets, giving to each 
family three rooms. Little enough, and less than is needful for 
health or comfort, or even decency. But this is the average. 
Many families have more than three rooms, and many therefore 
less. The census declares that 

151,454 families have each but one room ; 
282;785 families, each two ; 
453,327, three or more. 

Thus 437,239 families, making almost one half of the Belgium 
nation, have each but one or two rooms for their whole habitation. 

Over two millions of men, women, and children, every five of 
whom are lodged in one or two wretched rooms, badly lighted 
and worse ventilated, and in winter poorly warmed ; this one 
room or two, serving as dining-room, kitchen, storeroom, cellar, 
work-room, sleeping-room, with rotting straw for beds, or leaves 
which you may see them gathering for this purpose in autumn, 
on the highway. 

In the cities, the proportion of families that have but one or two 
rooms is larger than in the country. Antwerp counts 18,000 fami- 
lies, 11,000 of which have but one or two rooms. Brussels has 
30,000 families, 18,700 of which have but a singl.Q room, and 
6,800 two rooms. The medical commission of the city of Brus- 
sels, declares that the abodes of the greatest part of the laborers of 

* See the speech of M. de Perceval, member of the Belgian Chamber of 


that city,, are ** living tombs whither these wretched men come to 
rest themselves, after twelve hours of work." 

The food of these two millions is chiefly rye bread and potatoes, 
and a limited quantity of these. In ^^ good times," they have meat 
or fish once or twice a week, but it is the refuse of the markets — 
liver, lungs, heart, intestines, what in America is given to dogs. 

On the 30th of June, 1850, in the provinces of Flanders, out 
of a population of 1,415,484 there were 349,438 inscribed on the 
list of paupers. 

The habitations of half the population of Belgium are hot-beds 
for the forcing of physical and moral evils. Diseases generated 
by bad air and bad diet sweep off annually thousands of puny 

From these two millions what is to be looked for morally and 
intellectually for themselves, for the state. A man who has 
worked twelve hours to earn twenty cents, and then drags him- 
self through the stenches of filthy alleys to the stale odors of a 
pestilential home, to find there a haggard toil-w^orn wife, and sad, 
pale, hungry children, a supper of coarse brown bread, and a bed 
of foul straw, what moral content, what civic strength do his 
slumbers replenish ? He lies down without a thank for the day 
that is ended, he rises without a hope for the day that is be- 

When two millions out of four and a half writhe in this unhu- 
man degradation, the others will not have exemption from the ills 
of physical and moral poverty. The most favored of a com- 
munity cannot so isolate themselves but that against them will re- 
act the condition of the lowest, through conductors which no 
strength or skill can cut. The chastest maiden, whose thoughts 
and sensations build round her a halo that draws the homage of 
the purest, cannot, on the highest social elevation, escape infec- 
tion from the sickly breath of the harlot, whom she is yet too 
innocent to know of. It strikes like the inpalpable vapors of the 


pest. Unconsciously to herself her moral being is modified by 
the proximity of this social disease. Under Russian despotism, 
Belgian constitutional monarchism, American republicanism, men 
must form communities, they must have much in common, and 
cannot be rid of mutual dependence. In a higher social organiza- 
tion this dependence, which men now seek vainly to shake off, 
will be cultivated and a thousand-fold multiplied and strengthened, 
and with its strength will grow each man's moral and intellectual 
power and his freedom. 

In a social or political w^hole, whether constructed on a sound 
or fragile basis, parts dovetail into parts, individuals into indi- 
viduals. Connected, intermingled, interlaced with the two millions 
of semi-paupers of Belgium are other two millions of fellow- 
laborers, having more skill, many of them a little capital, earning 
instead of a franc, two, three, five francs, or more per day, who 
are most of them thus enabled to exchange often brown bread for 
white, and to garnish their potatoes and beans with more or less 
of animal nutriment. The iron hand of poverty is not on them, it 
is only suspended over their heads, and from them are replenished 
the ranks of the lowest masses, thousands annually slipping 
through the restless sieve of trading competition. 

Of the 890,566 families not more than ninety thousand, if so 
many, are clear of the pressure of straitened means. Three 
or four hundred thousand individuals, out of four and a half 
millions, whose daily life is softened by the comforts of civiliza- 
tion, who along with spacious carpeted lodging, meats fatted and 
cooked with art, the luxuries as well as the utilities furnished 
from flax, cotton and wool, enjoy leisure for culture, exemption 
from over-work and the freedom of movement allowed by pecu- 
niary ease. These favored few are the upper ranks of the 
"liberal professions," the bankers, merchants and large traders, 
the higher civil and military officers of the state, those who have 
inherited large capital, especially the '^ Noblesse," who, though 


now unrecognized by the state, enjoy with weahh the highest 
social position. 

Relatively to the four millions below them, these four hundred 
thousand have a happy existence ; relatively to, not a hopeless 
ideal, but to a condition attainable within the limits of a genera- 
tion by a hundred millions of living Christians, their life is barren, 
encumbered, slavish. 

I have cited Belgium, not because its statistics present a pecu- 
liarly dark picture, but because, on the contrary, in Europe it is 
regarded as a shining model of national weal. Bad enough, that 
** Statesmanship" and Political Economy should bring nations to 
this pass ; worse, that they know not how to get them out of it ; 
worst, that they perceive not the need of getting them out of it. 



Vive la Republique ! 

We have crossed the line that divides Belgium from France. 
Vive la Republique ! What a promise, what a hope is in that 
shout ! What achievements it proclaims, what consummations it 
prophesies ! Not with the outward voice of a catching momen- 
tary fervor, bet solemnly from the depths of a soul-enkindled 
feeling be that stirring sound re-uttered. It is the rally-cry of 
Christendom. To France all Europe looks with hope. She is 
the centre of the new regenerating movement. Regenerating, not 
because it substitutes Presidents for Kings, citizen-representatives 
for Barons ; but because it is to break down political monopoly, 
to make governors amenable to the governed, and, far more than 
this, because by giving each man a vote, it is to raise each voter 
to be a man. 

Economy, simplicity, supplanting military by civil processes, 
less partiality in legislation and administration, wiser legislators 
and administrators (for this in the long run is the result), equality 
before the law, bettering of most public methods, — all these are 
the minor gains of republicanism, whose essential virtue is in the 
energizing of the primary elements, in the recognition, cultiva- 
tion, refinement, enlargement of the substance out of which all 
forms of policy spring, and upon which they re-act, viz. : the 
masses of a nation, the individuals of its component multitudes, 


in Europe so brutified by monarchic and aristocratic despotism 
as to have been lately designated by a leading " Statesman," M. 
Thiers, as la vile multitude. 

Democracy is the diffusion, and at the same time the invigor- 
ation of light and organic life. It vitalizes the remotest parts; 
through it, generic power permeates the whole social body. It 
is a substitution of man for the State, of men for things, of souls 
for bodies. Demanding liberty, it creates what it needs ; it be- 
gets the vigor whereby it is to be braced. Proclaiming the power 
of self-government, it develops a broader, deeper self. He who 
believes not in self-government is less than a democrat ; he who 
does is more. Democracy is progressive and expansive. Its as- 
cendency is the gain of much liberty, and the assurance of more. 

Honor to France. A glory greater than that dazzling one 
whereby she was so long blinded is hers, the glory due to bold- 
ness and insight in social transformations. In this sphere more 
fruitful will be her courage than in the battle-field, although on 
that there may be still some last laurels for her to gather. Na- 
pier, in his History of the Peninsular War, celebrating the bril- 
liant bravery of a French charge, notes as a characteristic of 
French nature, that the first fiery onslaught being repelled, their 
line is disheartened. They lack elasticity under defeat. Not so 
in that other higher field. With fresh hope and spirit they have 
returned to the charge under the banner of Democracy, after 
lying for fifty years in defeat. And again partially worsted 
after the triumphant onslaught of 1848, they exhibit a determi- 
nation, fortitude, calmness, forbearance, that bespeak convictions 
matured by thought, and a confidence that cannot be broken by 

The morning of new eras is liable to be overcast ; but blinded 
by ignorance or fear or malignity are they who mistake this tran- 
sitory obscuration for a relapse to the past darkness. A people 
that has in it the juices for mature strength may be retarded in 


its progress, but not arrested ; and what seem forced retardations 
from without may be the natural currents of occult growth. The 
political revolutions of such a people can no more go back than 
can the planetary revolutions of the earth. Evolutions they 
should be called, for they are developments, however crash- 
ing may be the inaugurating acts. Democracy, or self-govern- 
ment, lies potentially at the heart of every people, that is, of 
every people of the white races. The time and manner of its 
emergence depend on mental constitution and outward influences. 
In England, where its spirit was ever strong, it took possession of 
the State under the Commonwealth, but it had not yet the cordial 
strength to impel itself arterially into all the members ; and the 
most capable man whom it created being by nature despotic in- 
stead of generous, regal instead of Christian, principles were 
smothered under usurpations, so that the bastard monarchy of 
Cromwell was at his death easily supplanted by the legitimate 
monarchy of the Stuarts. Many too of the most resolute for 
freedom had already fled across the sea to the newly discovered 
Continent, there on its virgin shores, unbefouled by the tares of 
oligarchical egotism, to lay foundations whereon was to rise a 
political fabric of purely democratic architecture, whose starry 
flag, unfurled at the end of the 18th century, was before the 
middle of the 19th to challenge the regards of the world as that 
of a preponderating Power among Christian States. Democracy 
had, if not its birth, its first wide national development in America. 
In France it came forth a blind Samson, and buried itself 
under the ruins caused by its rageful grasp. Its movement was 
that of the loosened lion, whose courage is made frantic by hunger 
and fear. Men glared on men like unchained demons in a fam- 
ished hell. With insane relish they lapped blood : that was their 
elixir for political renovation.^ But all this was transient, ex- 

* In the massacre of St. Bartholomew, seventy thousand Frenchmen 
were slain, two thousand of them in Paris. During the two years of the 


plosive phenomena, the agony of a great people's travail where 
nature had been poisoned, the convulsive writhings of an awa- 
kening giant against gyves and handcuffs. It denoted the great 
strength of the binding cords, and the still greater of the power 
that rent them. This power had at last recognized itself, and no 
bonds could ever again durably enthrall it. But here, as in Eng- 
land, the strongest child democracy had nursed, wielded the might 
wherewith she endowed him for the transitory ends of an impious 

Bonaparte was behind his age ; he was a man of the past. 
The value of the great modern instruments and the modern heart 
and growth he did not discern. He went groping in the mediae- 
val times to find the lustreless sceptre of Charlemagne, and he 
saw not the paramount potency there now is in that of Faust. 
He was a great cannoneer, not a great builder. In the centre of 
Europe, from amidst the most advanced, scientific nation on 
earth, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, not to perceive that 
lead in the form of type is far more puissant than in the form of 
bullets ; not to feel that for the head of the French nation to desire 
an imperial crown was as unmanly as it was disloyal, that a ri- 
valry of rotten Austria and barbaric Russia was a despicable 
vanity ; not to have yet learnt how much stronger ideas are than 
blows, principles than edicts — to be blind to all this, was to want 
vision, insight, wisdom. Bonaparte was not the original genius 
he has been vaunted ; he was a vulgar copyist, and Alexander 
of Macedon, and Frederick of Prussia were his models. Force 
was his means, despotism his aim ; war was his occupation, pomp 
his relaxation. For him the world was divided into two — his 
will, and those who opposed it. He acknowledged no duty, he 
respected no right, he flouted at integrity, he despised truth. He 
had no belief in man, no trust in God. In his wants he was ig- 

*' Reign of Terror," from '92 to '94, two thousand eight hundred and thirty- 
seven were executed in Paris. 


noble, in his methods ignorant. He was possessed by the lust of 
isolated, irresponsible, boundless, heartless power, and he believed 
that he could found it with the sword and bind it with lies ; and 
so, ere he began to grow old, what he had founded had already 
toppled, and what he had bound was loosed. He fell, and as if 
history would register his disgrace with a more instructive em- 
phasis, he fell twice ; and exhausted France, beleaguered by a 
million of armed foes, had to accept the restored imbecile Bour- 

But that could not last a generation. For a dozen years the 
military boots of Napoleon had trodden down the crop of aspira- 
tions and thoughts that sprang up with the Revolution, but had 
not killed them. The soldier's heel cannot stamp the life out of 
ideas. They had lived and made roots in silence and secrecy^ 
under the ghastly saturnalia of bloody fruitless conquests and 
Imperial tyrannies and ostentations. With the old men had come 
back the old egotisms, the old arrogances, the old inhumanities, 
the old feudal desires. But the old narrow forms had been shat- 
tered, the old growths cut up by the roots, and in their place 
were new wants, new hopes, new convictions. The old men, 
brought back by the enemies of France, stood isolated round the 
old throne. The nation was against them, and more than the 
nation, new truths were against them. Now was manifest the 
virtue of the great bloody revolution. It had engendered a new 
mind, broader, deeper, more earnest, higher, stronger, richer than 
the old one ; and the young generation that entered the arena at 
the downfall of Napoleon, enlightened by its fire, exalted by its 
vigor, was the eager heir of the principles, without being contam- 
inated by the errors, of the revolution. The propped throne was 
again upset, and the kingly brother of Louis XVI. was not, like 
him, brought to the block, but driven from France. In the 
" three days of July," 1830, the patchwork of the Holy Alliance 
was by the indignant people torn to shreds. 


But a bulky old State, so deeply diseased, in order to be purged 
and righted, needs several crises. Its huge load of malady it can 
only be rid of through successive throes. France had yet to 
carry on her breast for some years, the imposthume of Pvoyalty. 
The " Reign of Terror" was vivid in the memory of many, and 
its bloody image still rose up minatory whenever men directed 
their thoughts towards practical republicanism. The sins of that 
lurid epoch were not yet expiated. " Vive le Roi !" no longer a 
cordial cry, was still for a season to be the only one legal. Many 
even of the republicans accepted the project of *^ a throne sur- 
rounded by republican institutions." This absurdity had to be 
tried in order to be known. One would suppose, that the shape- 
lessness of such a political monster would have been apparent to 
men's minds without the shock of practical evidence. Louis 
Philippe, the head of the younger branch of the Bourbons, was 
declared King. 

This man's life, previously to his gaining the throne, was one 
long promise ; his life on the throne, was one long lie. The bond 
for " republican institutions" was kept by restricting the right of 
voting at all to the election of the lower Chamber, and limiting 
the number of voters to the two hundred thousand richest men of 
France ; by the creation of a House of Peers appointed by the 
King ; by the most rigid centralization of all legislative and ad- 
ministrative power ; by obstructing and gagging the Press, and 
withholding the right of meeting : by upholding, in so far as he 
could, the despotisms of Europe. Like all men who merely cal- 
culate, Louis Philippe miscalculated. In his own bosom he had 
naught wherewith to measure the moral force pf mankind. Sor- 
did and unscrupulous himself, he believed that all men could be 
bought, and that by buying a half million he could control the 
nation, and consolidate the throne for himself and his family. 
Himself and his family, this was his absorbing thought : self- 
aggrandizement was the end, France and Frenchmen were but 


his means. He was endured for eighteen long years, when 
France, betrayed and corrupted, wrathful at his want of faith, 
disgusted at his baseness, thrust him ignominiously from his per- 
jured throne, giving him the remnant of his contemptible life to 
wear it out in England, where he died as he had lived, his mind 
teeming to the last with intrigues and hypocrisies. 

Now swelled the popular heart. To claim their long seques- 
tered rights, the millions came forth, strong in hope, strong in 
justice, strong with a new intelligence, strong in their forbear- 
ance, their forgiveness. The Republic was declared, and with it 
universal tolerance, and a many-sided freedom. But the goal of 
a stable liberty was not yet attained. The Royalists were routed, 
not annihilated. Too weak for open war, they had strength for 
secret mischief. The Republicans themselves were not united. 
Fresh convulsions ensanguined the streets of Paris, and embit- 
tered the public mind. Moreover, France had yet another ex-^ 
piation to make. She had to expiate the sin of pride in Napoleon 
and of the vanity of military glory. His spirit was to give her 
one more scourging. At her call, he came back in the emaciated 
shape of his nephew, elected through universal suffrage by an 
immense majority, the first President of the Republic. 

Louis Bonaparte is cunning, resolute, and unscrupulous, with 
an ordinary intellect and an ordinary heart, and thence without 
principles or convictions. He is an ambitious mediocrity. His 
ambition being of that vulgarest kind, that springs from an intense 
love of self, is unleavened by any enthusiasm or expansiveness. 
He took the oath as President with Empire in his heart. That 
a man of this calibre should in the 19th century be in a position 
even to aspire to be Emperor of France ! To gain the Imperial 
diadem, Napoleon did immense things ; and repeated them, in 
order to wear it for a brief space. The largest thing the nephew 
will do in his lifetime, will be to have aspired to fill his uncle's 
seat. His dream will be his greatest deed. No spectacle is 


more pitiable than that of a small man in a great place. France, 
by offering this spectacle to the world in her first President, is 
expiating Napoleonism. 

Napoleon, Louis Philippe, Louis Bonaparte, — here is an anti- 
climax of rulers. Pvulers ! Baffled bunglers. The day for the 
rule of men is passed. Even the strong Napoleon was incapable 
of ruling. The Christian world has outgrown individual rulers; 
ideas, principles now rule. He who in authority is not imbued, 
bemastered by these, is at most an obstruction that temporarily 
angers the current, which, arrested for a time, chafes and eddies, 
and then sweeps into the abyss all that obstructs it. The great 
Bonaparte was sq^ swept down; and the wary Louis Philippe; 
yet now, when the stream is far deeper and stronger, the little 
Bonaparte would thrust forward his petty personality to divert its 
flooding course, to make its boiling waters back ! The highest 
that a shrewd judgment could have devised for such as he is, 
had been, to float for a season the apparent helm of the State, on 
the ocean of Democracy. 

For, Democracy, with the broad deep principles which it in- 
volves and unfolds, is henceforward to rule in France. Ideas, 
once rooted in a great people, cannot be uptorn. They grow 
until they embrace with their life every being on the soil. With 
their wide sun-like warmth they grasp the cold egotisms of a de- 
parted power, that vanish before them like icicles before the 
solstitial rays. 

Over the portal of the Palace, where this soulless retrospective 
aspirant would already play the mimic Emperor, are largely 
stamped words that are to him, and to all who with him or like 
him plot for regal or imperial sway, a terrific writing on the 
wall : Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. Before these great words, 
illuminated by a nation's faith, they recoil stricken with dread, 
so committed are they to usurpation, so tethered to fraud and force, 
so blinded by sensuality, so hateful of what is noble and generous. 


These sublime words, uttered in a mood of prophetic exaltation, 
proclaim the beauty and unsounded potency of the human heart. 
These beautiful words, the tokens of things more beautiful, re- 
assert the Christian promise of love and peace. They are a rain- 
bow splendor, painted on the evanescent clouds of despair by the 
eternal Sua of hope.* 

* Since this chapter was written has come the coup d/eto.t of Louis 
Bonaparte. This usurpation seems to dash the hopes and confound the 
estimates herein expressed. If the life of a nation were reckoned by months 
and years and not by decades and centuries, it would do so. A great 
Christian people cannot go back- Principles must triumph over expedients. 
I believe in God, not in the Devil ; in the victory of good over evil. 



At six in the morning of May 20th, 1851, through the tall, 
wide chamber-window, that lets in light from ceiling to floor, my 
just-awakened eyes look from my pillow upon the green plane- 
trees that grow in the vacant lot opposite to No. 8 rue dii Helder. 
Their large foliage is shaking coolly in the morning breeze. In 
the centre of Paris this tree-decked void is now rare. Favored is 
the Parisian lodger who has such opposite neighbors. They 
adorn my room, and make me free in it : they are at once my 
curtains and my companions. 

The hour of waking is a solemn hour. We have just past 
suddenly from darkness into light, from death to life. Uncon- 
scious babes we come crying into the world, and this matinal re- 
birth is a conscious daily entrance upon a scene of sorrow. It is 
the hour when yesterday is nearest, — yesterday that silently 
wrings the conscience, like the saddened gaze of a dying friend 
whom we have wronged. He is gone forever, and we have not 
been to him what we should have been. But we get hardened to 
these retrospective upbraidings, and thrusting yesterday behind 
us in thought as he is in fact, we turn in our bed, — the will not 
being yet enough electrified to lift us out of recumbency into up- 
rightness, — and boldly or timorously, despondently or hopefully, 
indifferently or cheerfully, we confront the new day that the sun 
has just brought to us from the mysterious East. For myself, 


being bent on extra work, action cuts short meditation, and I leap 
out of bed into water at 58^ Fahrenheit, — a tenaperature to be 
recommended to those who possess the privilege of beginning 
every day with a cold bath. 

The window unlatched, turning on double hinges like a folding 
door, opens its whole expanse. Fresh and sweet the morning air 
rolls in, untainted up here in the Premier (what we should call 
the third story) by the impurities of the pavement. The cries of 
Paris are in full chorus, the old-clothes men leading the peripatetic 
band. Opposite, a hydrant, — set running for two hours morning, 
noon and evening for domestic service and to gargle the gutters, — 
pours forth a vigorous stream, that seems to delight in its own 
cool gush. 

Issuing through the porte-cochere into the street, a little 

past seven, a few steps bring us to the corner, where we surprise 
the Boulevard des Italiens in complete deshabille. Brooms, dus- 
ters, water-pails are busy ; shop-windows are disgarnished ; cafes 
are turned out of doors to be swept ; the broad sidewalks, the 
afternoon home for swarms of idlers, are unpeopled, save by the 
initiatory providers of the day, the indispensable purveyors, who 
could be as ill spared as the Sun with whom they rise, the bread- 
men and water-men and milk-men. Sad-looking women are on 
their way to the close hives, where a whole day's lung-and-eye- 
wearing stitchwork earns for them a minimum of life's first 
necessaries. An ice-cart, with its circular thatched roof, is at 
Tortoni's. — We have reached the Boulevard Montmartre ; the 
shade on the east side is already welcome. Opposite, a line of 
cabs, mostly of royal blue with white ponies, has taken its stand 
of passive expectancy. Cabmen are favored : they enjoy several 
of the first elements of well-being. They are all day in the open 
air ; they are never like other mortals deserted by hope, upon 
which it may be said they chiefly live ; they frequent the best 
houses, keep good company, and always ride. In return for 


these blessings, they are contented and civil ; and if, to their 
snmll perquisite you add a sous or two, they on their part will add 
to their " merci, monsieur," a cordiality and gratitude of tone that 
at once make you the gainer by the gift. 

The daily inaugurating act of each house in Paris is, to purge 
itself of the sweepings and rejected kitchen-fragments of the past 
twenty-four hours, which are thrown out in piles on the edge 
of the sidewalk, where they await the scavenger-carts that come 
along towards eight. But ere these can arrive squalid Povert}^, 
pricked out of sleep by Hunger, has started from its filthy couch, 
and dispersed through the streets its tattered hordes. At this mo- 
ment over every pile of garbage bends a hungry proletarian, 
seeking therein his breakfast, and it may be his dinner. Look at 
that man, a deep, wide-mouthed basket strapped to his back. 
With a short stick, hooked at one end, he rakes into the pile, 
drives his hook into rag or paper, delivers what he has pinned 
into the basket, with a rapid jerk of the stick over his shoulder, 
and ferrets again into the foul heap with an eye made keen by 
w^ant. Here is another who has laid down the hook, and with 
his hands is picking out bones. I have seen a man and a dog 
fraternally exploring the same pile. A little further a woman 
is sorting, at the edge of the gutter, the rejected lemon-peels of 
a cafe ; the best of them, — for to poverty there is choice in lowest 
degrees, — she throws into her basket, and will perhaps, out of 
this refuse of an orgie, concoct a savory draft for her sick child. 
These are the chiffoniers, the rag-gatherers. 

Seizing a moment of intermittence in the flow of carts, man- 
drawn as well as horse-drawn, and of lazy-looking cabs, we cross 
the rue Monimartre, one of the great arteries of Paris. We 
meet squads of laborers in blue blouses, with tools on shoulder, 
going to their work, distant for many of them a league or m.ore 
from their homes in the quartier St. Antoine, — if homes those 
can be called where there is so little of privacy and comfort for 



the few hours they are in them. On the edge of the sidewalk 
of the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle three drivers of public sprink- 
ling-carts are lying, two of them asleep. Through the band of 
the broad-brimmed drab hat of each is a rosebud, shining on that 
coarse ground, like Beauty guarding the slumbers of Strength. 

We are now at the Porte St, Denis, The mile that we have 
come on the Boulevard is but a small segment of this longest, 
broadest, freest, most commodious, most lively, most variegated, 
most magnificent of urban avenues in the world. The width of 
this queen of streets is about one hundred and thirty feet, the one 
half in asphalte sidewalks. The Porte St. Denis is a triumphal 
arch seventy feet high, erected more than a century since on the 
foundations of one of the old gates of Paris in honor of the victorious 
campaigns of Louis XIY. On the entablature you read in large 
capitals, Ludovico Magno. Monumental insci'iptions that are 
not rescripts of the general judgment are speechless. Einpha- 
size, begild, emblazon them as you will, they have no voice. A 
score of triumphal arches could not make great stick to Louis XIV"., 
and this Magno is but an impotent ostentation. 

As we retrace our steps, the Boulevard is fuller. Here a 
flower- woman has just taken her stand. For a bunch of rose- 
buds she asks ten cents and takes eight, and would probably have 
taken six. She is a type of all traders, great and small, whose 
aims, means, and whole practice may be codified into one brief 
precept ; — buy as cheap and sell as dear as you can. — For a 
moment our passage is obstructed by a herd of she-asses who, 
with their habitual countenance of grave resignation, are coming 
up to the door of an invalid, to whom ass's milk has been pre- 
scribed by some doubting, dogmatic doctor. The stream of 
busy humanity that pours out of the Passage Jouffroy towards the 
heart of the city, deepens. Some are reading, as they walk, the 
morning papers, which they have just bought at a news-stall. 
It is nearly eight when we re-enter the gate of the Hotel du Tihre, 


This is the hour for breakfast and the newspapers, both 

excellent ; for the bread and the butter of Paris are sweet, and 
the newspapers are the most readable in the world. A virtue of 
French nature is, that it is intolerant of a bore. With French- 
men the style enniueux is the only bad style. Their best pens 
work for the newspapers. At this moment a score of the clever- 
est members of the National Assembly are habitual contributors 
to them. Novelists, poets, men of science, critics of high name, 
fill daily their feuilletojis. The Paris journals have less quantity 
and finer quality, less matter and more spirit, less about trade and 
more about taste, than those of England or America. 

The French speakers and writers are sounding the depths of 
politics with as much ability as boldness. Their expositions 
throw fresh light on our practice. From several of the most 
marked of the Paris journals of this morning I will take a few 
sentences as samples of the political opinions and hopes of the day. 

The Assemhiee Nationale, — said to be under the influence of 
M. Guizot, — shall speak in a single sentence for all the Royal- 
ists : — ^' Oui, puisque la Republique est une necessite du temps, 
de la confusion des idees et de Tabaissement des courages, subis- 
sons la avec resignation." The resignation here preached means 
resistance at the first opportunity; for the Royalists have under- 
standing and will not understand, and they do sincerely believe 
that when they shall have gotten rid of Louis Bonaparte, they 
can permanently put down democracy. As wisely employed 
would they be in trying to put down light. Is the Sun too lu- 
minous for them, they can in no other way escape his rays than 
by retreating from the upper earth into cellars and cavern-s. 
Can they not bear the fertilizing heat of Democracy, let them 
withdraw into the wildernesses of Asiatic despotism. Europe is 
no place for them. For Europe, under the momentum imparted 
by Christianity, thought, science, instinct, is galloping into de- 


It might be thought, that the Thiers and the Guizots, and the 
Broughams, being shrewd, practised men, know better, and are 
hypocrites when they denounce Democracy. To account for 
their proceeding, their sincerity need not be questioned. The 
intellectual vision of such men gets obscured by egotism. They 
commenced as light-dispensing liberals, but having within them 
no cordial love of truth to keep their minds warm and elastic, 
they have become narrowed and petrified by conceit and ambi- 
tion. They never were other than political adventurers, self- 
seeking speculators in the market of Politics. 

The Pays has lately come under the control of Lamartine. 
Writing to-day on the '' Republic which best suits France," he 
combats the project of an Executive named by the Assembly. 
Here is a brick from his pile : — " Une Assemblee executant elle- 
meme, sans division des pouvoirs, c'est la confusion des pouvoirs, 
c'est I'irresponsabilite du gouvernment, c'est I'impunite de toutes 
les oppressions contre le peuple, c'est la tyrannic a mille tetes ! 
C'est la Convention ! En voulez vous ?" 

The Bepuhliqiie, in an article headed, '' Monarchie ou Republi- 
que," and signed Ad. Gueroult, says : — ^' II s'agit de choisir 
entre le regime paternel de I'Autriche et le gouvernement du 
pays par lui-meme ; de retourner au moyen-age, on du con- 
tinuer la Revolution Francaise. Qui pourra douter du resul- 
tat r' 

The Presse, when its proprietor, Emile de Girardin, puts his 
soul into it as he does just now, is the ablest journal in Christen- 
dom. It glows this morning with power. By its zeal, ability 
and vigor, it is the most efficient expounder of the great demo- 
cratic movement in France and Europe. 

To royalist papers, quarrelling about the elder and younger 
branches of the Bourbons, M. de Girardin says : — " Ne vous 
querellez pas : ni les cadets ni les aines de la maison de Bourbon 
ne reviendront en France, a moins qu'il ne leur convienne d'y 


revenir sans autre pretension que celle de simples citoyens, elec- 
teurs et eligibles. 

"Le droit commun est devenu le droit absolu ; il n'admet pas 

"Les Monarchistes ont tue la Monarchie en France : les fusio- 
nistes I'ont enterree." 

The limitations of time and space, the inexorable condi- 
tions to which he is subjected by his body and his watch pinch 
the stranger, who wishes to crowd into one Paris day a great 
variety of objects and sensations. He must hurry and be content 
with glimpses. But the deathless mind has no such limitations. 
In a second it sweeps through aeons, or embraces the orbits of si- 
derial systems. Within the compass of a kw minutes, while you 
are passing through a Chilrch or a Museum, long chapters of 
thought can write themselves upon the brain. I shall not so 
abuse the indulgence of the reader, who permits me to lead him 
about the Capital of France, as to transcribe the half of this 
writing. Were I to do so, instead of an hour, — he would need a 
day to read "a day in Paris." I spare him. 

Among the cardinal objects of Paris, one of the nearest to our 
lodgings is the National Library, in the rue Richelieu, the largest 
in the world, containing more than a million of volumes. We 
arrive just as the guardians are throwing open its immense 
galleries at ten. 

A vast compact collection of books is a table of contents of the 
world past and present, an epitome of human kind up to the living 
hour. What our predecessors on the globe have thought and 
done is here registered. Manuscripts, Syriac, Coptic, Arabic, 
fill any chasms that the briarean printing-press has not yet bridged 
over. From these shelves, men and nations speak and tell their 
story. Around you is a chronicle of your race. Those tribes 
whose nature and speech were too feeble to utter themselves in 
books, have been reported by their stronger kin. 


Books denote intellectual wants satisfied ; they are clasps 
wrought by culture to strengthen itself; they are testinnonials of 
national character ; they measure the degree of human vitality in 
a people. Those who have the best books will be found to be at 
the top of the scale, those who have none at the bottom. Recall 
the history of Nations, and survey a present map of the globe. 
Books are grains of spiritual wheat; I mean good books, such as 
have the life of fresh honest thought in them. A good library is 
a granary of thoughts ; it stores up aliment for the mind ; it pre- 
serves seed from all ages and countries, and, like the wheat dis- 
covered in the tombs of Egypt, this seed keeps its life for thou- 
sands of years, and if planted fructifies. 

The sowing is here done broadcast, for in going the round of 
these gigantic halls we come upon one where, at a long table, sit 
a multitude of silent readers. Whoever wishes a book writes its 
name on a slip of paper. This the Librarian hands to one of his 
assistants, who perhaps has to walk through a furlong of books to 
fetch it. The volumes delivered to him the applicant must use 
in the library ; he is not permitted to take them away. 

Like a patriarch amidst his progeny, in the centre of one of 
the great halls, sits in permanent presidence, Yoltaire, — Voltaire 
the skeptical, the witty, the versatile, the voluminous. The statue 
is a copy in plaster bronzed of that marvel of portrait-sculpture 
in the Theatre Francais, by Houdon. The aged face sparkles 
with shrewdness. It is the head and face not of the wisest but of 
the most knowing of men. The countenance is that as of a man 
who had never wept. But in this it wrongs Voltaire : he was not 
without sympathy and kindliness. Nor was he, like Talleyrand, 
a man who believed in nothing but himself, and in his best mo- 
ments doubted even that. Priests, whom his reason unmasked 
and his wit lashed, have done their worst to blacken Voltaire. 
With priests, — who live by creeds and credulity, — the direst 
olfence is skepticism. But skepticism is never an original dis- 


ease ; it is a reaction against hypocrisy and false belief. Skepti- 
cism is the forerunner of a better belief, for naen are by nature 
believers, and doubts are the braces of faith. The man who has 
never doubted is apt to be a shallow believer. To the generation 
that doubted with Voltaire has succeeded a generation, which, 
strengthened by the antecedent purgation through doubt, now be- 
lieves with Beranger and with Lammenais, and with him who is 
the deepest and broadest believer and the most far-seeing man of 
his country and age, with Fourier, who came to harmonize the 
heart of man with the thought of God. 

Turnings to the left as we issue into the rue Richelieu, 

through the massive black portal of the Library, we soon cross 
the rue neuve des Petits Champs, and in a few paces come upon 
a short passage, by help of which, after descending a flight of 
stone steps, we suddenly find ourselves under an arched, open 
corridor, that encloses an oblong quadrangle, seven hundred feet 
by three hundred, planted with rows of truncated lime-trees, with 
grass-plots and flower-beds, fountains and statues in the centre. 
All round this immense corridor of two thousand feet are shops, 
and above it is one immense edifice, internally partitioned, hori- 
zontally as well as vertically, into hundreds of tenements, and is 
externally of uniform and florid architecture, with fluted pilasters 
and Corinthian capitals, and elaborate details of ornament. This 
is the Palais Royal, a compendium of the great Capital in whose 
midst it stands — a mammoth warehouse of the necessaries and 
the luxuries, the solids and the prettinesses, the grossnesses and 
the refinements of civilization. Here you may equip yourself for 
a journey or a ball ; furnish a house or a trunk ; fill your library 
or your larder ; pass from the taciturn reading-room to the chat- 
tering Estaminet, to quicken time's pace by a game of billiards 
with Charles or Romain ; wash down a twenty franc dinner with 
a bottle ofClos Vougeot at the Trois Freres, or a two franc one 
with thin Bordeaux at Richard^s hard by ; mount into the alti- 


tudcs of Art with Rachel, or have Levassor help you digest your 
dinner with Iiis side-shaking fun. 

At this hour and season the spring-green leaves of the dwarfed 
lime-trees, w^hich contrast harmoniously with their clean black 
branches, waste on the smooth gravel their rectilinear shade, not 
yet prized by the gossipping nurses, and less by the children that 
run among the legs of elderly loungers, who come to this sprightly 
seclusion, this palatial patch of French tub in urle, to let indo- 
lence float them an hour or two down Time's lethean stream. 

Besides the wealthy idle, there are in Paris thousands of people 
who, on incomes of from two hundred to fi\e hundred dollars, 
lead a life of absolute unproductiveness. To this class, time is 
all pastime. Their meals are their occupations. For their attic 
lodgings, and other scant indispensables, they grudgingly pay 
their few francs daily. This is all they give ; they are takers, 
not givers. They live on the community ; that is, on what is 
common and open to all, which in Paris is so lively and various, 
that to the vacant it is as good as a fat property. In good weather 
they haunt the Boulevards and public gardens and gratis specta- 
cles ; in bad, the cafes, esiaminets, auctions, passages, bazaars. 
Their personal relations are few. The responsibilities fed by the 
affections, the duties of worker, citizen, and friend, from these they 
emancipate themselves as fully as may be, in order to reduce 
existence to the minimum of care. This they call freedom, and 
in sadness we allow, that they are not w^holly wrong ; for under 
the civilized regime, such falseness is there in all relations, that 
he who has the fewest is the freest. What a freedom ! obtained 
by personal isolation and moral micrification. 

In five minutes we alight at the Church of *S/. Germain 

VAuxerrois, This church has a dismal celebrity. From its bel- 
fry it was that on the 23d of August, 1572, was given the signal 
for the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and all through that awful 
night its bell tolled. Was it in penitence, or in triumph ? The 


Romish Church professes to be unchangeable. Are its priests 
then ready to re-commit that crime for which earth has no name ? 
Did the executioners of that sacerdotal sentence afterwards bring 
their doings of that night to the confessional ? Was the fulness 
of the absolution and its unction in proportion to the number of 
victims reported ? Good God ! that these godless impostors 
should still thrive ! that men who have had opportunities and 
culture, men even of manly natures, should still submit them- 
selves, their feelings and their acts, to the revision of this histri- 
onic corporation ! — But we will not stop longer on the threshold, 
to be embittered by the terrific retrospection, and the angry 
thoughts it awakens. 

Within, two funeral services are going on ; one in the middle 
of the church for a child, the other in a side chapel for an adult, 
and, from the tranquil acquiescent mien of the mourners, appa- 
rently, aged person. But from the group in the centre are heard 
the sobs of that sharp grief which cuts into the heart of the mother, 
and makes there a wound that never fully heals. Violence has 
been done, hence life-quaking sorrow ; for early death, or death 
from any cause but decay, is against the normal law of nature. 
The painless death of the aged from exhaustion is the only natu- 
ral death — painless to the departed, and painless, though sad, to 
the survivors. 

In another recess an elderly priest is teaching the catechism to 
a large class of boys. French children in the earliest years are 
mostly not beautiful ; they want the unconscious, untainted, self- 
less look, which, with a rosy transparent plumpness, makes cher- 
ubs of their little neighbors across the Channel ; but among these 
boys, who were from ten to fourteen, there was much beauty. 
As we paused for a moment, the priest asked one of them to ex- 
plain the mystery of the incarnation ! The boy made answer 
according to the words of the book. 

In a populous city like Paris, where there are few churches, 



and where so many thousands seldom visit them, except for the 
great sacraments, it were quite possible to hit upon an hour when, 
besides a funeral, there should be a marriage and a christening. 
As we had not this fortune, I almost regretted not to possess the 
gift that some reporters have, of eking out with inventions the 
short-comings of reality. Yet it was fitting that for this church, 
the image of death should stand alone in the memory. 

Coming out, we front the east facade of the Louvre, and 

on the globe we could not stand on a spot from which to behold a 
grander architectural mass. A colonnade nearly two hundred 
yards long, of coupled Corinthian columns, each one thirty-eight 
feet high, supported on a plain basement thirty feet high, with a 
gallery behind pierced with windows and enriched with pilasters 
and festoons. But here, as in all great architectural creations, 
the enduring grandeur and beauty spring from the proportions. 
Were the basement a few feet lower, or the pairs of columns fur- 
ther apart, or the entablature less massive, or the central and 
lateral projections more prominent, the harmony would be broken, 
and this unique fa9ade would have missed much of its renown. 
Possibly some of the details might be improved. The arching of 
the windows in the basement, the want of elevation in those above, 
the unmeaningness of the festoons over each upper window, if 
these are defects, — which I hardly presume to say they are, — 
they are merged in the splendor of effect produced by excellence 
of proportion among such gigantic constituents. 

Those great Greeks ! what a plastic genius, what a clear soul 
for beauty, what an infallible inward sense of form they had. 
Look at a Corinthian column, with its wrought base, its light 
fluted shaft, springing with a graceful strength up to its acanthine 
capital, like an elastic Flora bearing a basket of flowers above her 
head, — what a creation it is ! Imperishable from its beauty, it is 
an ornament to the earth forever. 

The Quays are one of the great features of Paris. Herein 


she high overrides her mightier English rival. Ten miles of 
quay, — five on each side of the river, — of from fifty to eighty feet 
wide, paved, lighted, fenced by stone balustrades, one endless 
terrace overlooking the Seine, the one side communicating with 
the other by a dozen bridges, — it is a magnificence traversing the 
city, such as no other city in the world can show. 

Ascending the quays on the right bank of the river, we cross 
the Pont Neiif to the island, where is the original city, the pri- 
mary centre, round which by successive radiations has grown in 
the course of more than a dozen centuries, this vast metropolis. 
Passing by the Palais de Justice, we alight in front of the huge 
truncated towers of Notre Dame, the foundations of which were 
laid more than eight hundred years ago. 

Seldom is there in architecture a transmission of life from part 
to part, a quick circulation of vitality through the members, melt- 
ing them into a whole. The great law of unity, predominant and 
transparent in every work of Nature, and therefore imperative in 
Art, is from weakness seldom fulfilled in its severity. Now the 
imposing front of the famous old Cathedral of Notre Dame, is not 
enough penetrated by this unifying essence. The parts lie one 
above the other strata-wise. It cannot be called heavy, yet it 
presses too much on the earth. The best architecture is always 
buoyant, lifting itself up with an intrinsic nervousness, a self- 
sustainment, infused by beauty ; for beauty has the virtue to 
spiritualize the bulkiest mass. 

And the exterior is the best of it. The interior is in its ensemble 
less inspired. Those stout columns, besides being not Gothic, are 
grossly prosaic. Instead of mounting up with alacrity to meet the 
down- stooped roof, and carrying it without sign of effort, they lock 
overladen, and as though they complained of their task. But here 
in the transepts is a compensating pomp, two circular painted 
windows, opposite the one to the other, and each fifty feet in diam- 
eter. They are like the magnification of a brilliant kaleidoscope. 


These Gothic cathedrals are sublime efforts made in the middle 
ages, to embrace God with the uplifted arms of mighty Archi- 

Crossing over to the left bank of the river, we traverse 

part of the quariier Latin to reach the Luxembourg. We have 
time but for a short turn in its spacious, shady, hospitable garden, 
from which we hasten up to the gallery of living French painters. 

With ever new zest one re-beholds that great picture of Couture, 
Les Romains de la Decadence. _ A capital excellence of this mas- 
terpiece is, that it illustrates and demonstrates the limitation of 
the Arts. Each art has its domain within which it is sovereign, 
beyond which it is uncrowned. Never did artist plant himself 
more firmly in the very centre of his rightful dominion than does 
Couture in this picture. Written poetry, sculpture, music, could 
not with their utmost attainment, singly or united, impress upon 
the mind an image of the decline of Rome, so vivid, so full, so 
convincing, as is here done on canvass in a single view. — A Ro- 
man orgie, in a lofty banquet-hall of cool Grecian architecture ; 
men and women reclining, standing, sitting, some with goblets in 
hand ; and over all the languor of an iri'emediable satiety. In 
that large, graceful, recumbent, central, female figure, what 
fallen majesty, what spent power, what a gigantic lassitude ! in 
those big dark orbs what a depth of fixed sadness ! Never more 
can that countenance beam with joy. Here a male figure has 
climbed up to a niche and offers wine to a statue; what a fine 
stroke of Art to express utter satiation. On the opposite side, a 
woman is tearing her hair, as if suddenly seized with madness, 
and nobody heeds her. In the distant background, a group are 
tearing one another. Here there is a show of dalliance, but lack- 
ing the sting of passion. In the love there is no fire, no flavor in 
the wine, nor in the grapes any slaking coolness. Palate and 
feeling, body and soul, all is hlase, consumed by a heat which 
warms not. Those two spectators in the corner, standing indig- 


nantj like Brutus and Cassius come back, they frown in vain. 
Mighty Rome is fallen forever. The Latin civilization is drained 
to the bottom, and here are the putrid lees. It had not the soul 
of the highest life. The spiritual element, t-he higher human, 
the vivacious and immortal, mingled in it too feebly to project it 
towards an indefinite progression. Its great animal intellectual 
vigor, has compassed the widest orbit yet permitted to a nation. 
Force has run its full circle, beginning in rude strength, and end- 
ing, naturally, in voluptuousness. 

But already, as Rome passed her zenith, in the East had been 
laid the foundations of a power, on whose immeasurable path was 
to be borne, not a nation, but a host of nations, and not nations 
merely, but better than nations, Man. Civilized Paganism was 
the consecration of the State ; Christianity is the consecration of 
man. In Greece and Rome man was subordinated to the State ; 
the more the law of Christ is fulfilled,' the more the State is sub- 
ordinated to man. The greater the concentration and exercise 
of power in the State, the smaller is man. When the State is all 
and man nothing, as under Despotism, the instrument rules its 
maker, and belittles him ; for the State is of man, and man is of 
God. When Christianity grows strong, it strengthens man, and 
melts the bonds of the State. The freest nation must be the most 
Christian. The most unchristian power in Christendom is the 

The thoughts kindled by this great picture carry us away from 
the picture itself. Considering the almost unique felicity of the 
subject, the breadth of its purport, the intellectual beauty of its 
composition, the masterly richness of the execution, the high un- 
conscious moral there is in it, this picture should rank as one of 
the greatest works of art in Europe. It is a canvas-compendium 
of Roman history. Study it, and save yourself the trouble of 
reading Gibbon. 

— ' — The sun has passed the meridian, and will soon be hur- 


rying away from us : we must hasten after him. — Coachman, 
drive as fast as safety and the police will let you. From the nar- 
row, damp streets of this side the river, one issues upon the quays 
with a feelinfT of disenthralment. Turninfj to the left we descend 
the left hank. In view on the opposite shore are, the Louvre, its 
long gallery, the Palace, the garden of the Tuileries. On this 
side we drive along, first the learned quays Malaquais and Vol- 
taire, with their book-stalls and print-shops, and the house where 
Voltaire died, then the Quay D'Orsay, with its imposing edifices 
and patrician tranquillity. Now are we crossing the Pont de la 
Concorde, from which the eye ranges up the river to be stopped 
two miles off by the towers of Notre Dame, and down, by distant 
foliage, then across to the Place de la Concorde, with its neigh- 
boring grandeurs. Flanked on the right by the massy foliage of 
the Tuileries, and on the lef\ by Elyseean vistas under broken 
shade ; with its two pompous fountains spouting their large ex- 
panse of clear, noisy water, between them the Obelisk of Luxor, 
looking in its solemn singleness like a mourner at a wedding ; 
with its gay, bronze-gilt lamp-columns and bold statuary and in- 
cessant roll and glitter of carriages, and its magnificent environ- 
ment, the Place de la Concorde, on every sunny day like this, 
wears a festal air. Now we are close upon the Madeleine, belted 
by more than fifty Corinthian columns, each one fifty feet high. 
For months this architectural paragon has been to me a daily joy ; 
for, not a day but I pass it more than once, and never without 
fresh admiration and thankfulness. I will presume upon the 
privilege of having gazed at it many hundred times to find one 
fault in it. The pediment is not purely Grecian, but somewhat 
Roman, that is, a little too high. Were there a mile up the Bou- 
levards a large specimen of pure Gothic, what termini there were 
to the gayest walk in Europe. 

We reach the rue du Helder at one, most grateful for an hour's 


rest, which is made more refreshing by help of a mutton-chop and 
French roll for lunch. 

It is half-past two when I find myself again on the other 

side of the river, and alighting at the corner of the Quay Vol- 
taire, I walk into the rue de Beaune. No. 2 is the first gate-way 
on the right, entering the which I cross a broad court, ascend a 
few steps to the large open portal, turn to the right, and having 
passed through two doors in succession, have before me in a spa- 
cious, shelf-furnished room, several clerks, silently at work be- 
hind the wire netting that in French offices separates the visitor 
from the inmates. Invading this precinct, with interchange of 
salutation with the occupants, I issue out at the opposite angle, 
and traversing a short, dark passage, enter by a small door an- 
other capacious room with tall windows to the ground looking on 
a garden. At an enormous oval table in the middle of the room, 
covered with green baize and bestrown with newspapers, two 
bearded men are writing, and another is reading a journal, a sofa 
on one side is possessed in its full length by a recumbent fourth, 
while two or three others, seated before the coal embers of the 
large fire-place, are smoking short clay pipes. Conversation is 
fitful, now and then rising for a few moments into earnest con- 
tinuity. This is the sanctum of the writers for the Democracie 
Pacijique, and the rendezvous of the Phalansterians. On the 
mantel-piece is a bust of Fourier. 

These men believe in a new social order, to be founded on ab- 
solute justice ; and they have dedicated themselves to the expo- 
sition of the laws whereby it is to be organized. Convictions of 
the present possibility of a more human and a more divine con- 
dition for man, contrasted with which the best he has yet had is 
but vanity and blight, these are the staple of their life. They 
live in a future, built of ideas originated by thoughtful, sympa- 
thizing genius. They themselves are not raised above their fel- 
lows by brilliancy of parts or purity of conduct ; their distinction 


is, that, whether by the fortune of association, or by intellec- 
tual sympathy, or by sesthetic susceptibility, they have accept- 
ed the discoveries of Fourier. Providence provides that the 
good seed which she generates shall some of it light on soil 
where it can grow and fructify. They are not high on the so- 
cial scale, but from the eminence of new truth they look calmly 
down upon the turmoil which men now call society. In the 
world's goods they are poor, but the incommensurable wealth of 
world-moulding ideas is theirs ; and thus enriched, they already 
enjoy an inward well-being, which to flaunting grandees and be- 
dizened officials, who think they despise them, were an incredible 

The bust of Fourier is unhappily not faithful. The artist has 
had the imbecile arrogance to alter God's work : he thought to 
improve it ! He has " idealized" by squaring, enlarging, em- 
boldening it ; that is, he has annihilated Fourier, and instead of 
a transcript from the original head, he has given us a big, hol- 
low, no-head. But the disciples of Fourier possess a cast from 
his cranium after death. This indicates a nature more distin- 
guished for the completeness and harmony of its organization, 
than for any one-sided intellectual or affective superiority. I 
gazed at it as I had at his simple tomb in the cemetery of Mont- 
martre, with deep emotion ; for to this man I acknowledge my- 
self to be under unspeakable obligations. He has ratified and 
enlightened my best intuitions ; he has intellectualized my as- 
pirations into scientific truths. His discoveries and deductions 
are new revelations of the greatness and goodness of God, and 
of the cognate powder and splendor of man. "Les attractions 
sont proportionelles aux destinees ;" — " La Serie distribue les har- 
monies."* These two sublime formulas, into which Fourier has 
condensed the essence of his doctrine, and which prefigure the 

* Attractions are proportionate to destinies ;— the Series distributes the 


coming glorified condition of humanity, are as yet to the mul- 
titude cabalistic and enigmatical, and to the Pharisees what were, 
and continue to be to them the words of Jesus, ^' Love thy neigh- 
bor as thyself," — '' Be ye perfect, even as your Father which is 
in Heaven is perfect ;" the which sublime exhortations are still 
an ideal goal, shining with a star-like brilliancy, and a star-like 
remoteness, through the night of human enmities and imperfec- 
tions. The formulas of Fourier are the vehicle wherein this 
high ideal shall descend to the earth, and become the reality of 
daily life. 

Re-crossing the Seine by the Pont National, I enter the 

Tuileries Gardens. Trees and turf are freshly robed in the 
clear, clean verdure of spring. On coming into these gardens 
one gains a sense of freedom. The sudden salutation of Nature 
in mid-urban closeness were enough for this, and Art enlarges 
the sensation by beautifying the welcome of Nature with her 
own graceful courtesy. With the leaves and flower-buds chil- 
dren have come back. The broad alley on the rue Rivoli is 
glittering with these soul-buds, and through the joyous, busy 
swarm one moves slowly, imbibing spiritual peace from celestial 

Quitting the Garden by the gate opposite the arch-flanked rue 
Casiiliogne, in five minutes I am in the nee Duphot, which ascends 
from that of St. Honor e to the Boulevard des Cajmcines. At No. 
12 I pass under a solid gateway over which is inscribed, Ecole 
d' Equitation, wiiere besides the best schooling in horsemanship in 
a spacious covered quadrangle, good well-equipt saddle-horses 
are to be had by the month or day. In a few minutes I have 
under me a clean-limbed English blood mare, in full trot up the 
broad avenue of the Champs Elysees. A ride on a mettled horse 
who enjoys his own springy motion, is a cure for many of the 
minor ills of life. 

The sight cannot escape the gigantic Triumphal Arch which 


crowns the eminence at the head of this noble avenue, — by far 
the most massive specimen in Europe of a vain and arrogant 
class of edifice, and a sample of the handiwork of Napoleon, who 
was so great in the smaller, the material sublime, and so small 
in the greater, the moral sublime. Two centuries hence this 
monument of military achievements will by the thoughtful of 
that period be interpreted as a naif record, — elaborately chiselled 
upon the tablet of History by the " Great Captain of the age," — 
of the semi-barbarism of the nineteenth century, whereof him- 
self was the most shining exemplification. 

Leaving this monster* on the right, I join the current which, 
on the cushioned seats of coach or saddle, sets at this hour up 
the avenue of St. Cloud towards the Bois de Boulogne, This 
sandy area, about seven miles in circuit, covered for the most 
part by a stunted growth, chiefly of oaks and birch, is inter- 
sected throughout by numerous straight avenues that run across 
from edge to edge and cut one another at all angles. There is 
but one meandering path, running through the middle, and much 
frequented by equestrians. This is a pleasure-ground for that 
portion of Parisian idlers who can afford the daily luxury of 
horses. On Sundays all the hackney-carriages of Paris are in 
request to transport thither a fraction of the Bourgeoisie, But 
even hacks are beyond the reach of the mechanical and other 
hard-working classes. Those on w^hose broad, steadfast labor 
Society rests as her foundation, she dooms to exclusion even from 
the meagre relaxations which in her penury she doles out. In 
her diabolic perversity she honors most the least creative, those 
who consume much and produce nothing. 

Here comes, on a stout sleek horse, a stout well-tailored man, 
with groom to match. His square fleshy face is sallow, his eye 
egotistic and unhappy. Pie looks like a rich sensualist hopelessly 

* It cost two millions of dollars. For his own magnification, the Corsi- 
can spent the gold of Frenchmen as lightly as their blood. 


riding for an appetite. In passing, he scans me, as though by 
my look he would measure my worldly importance. In a but- 
ton-hole of his coat he has a red ribbon, and on his overcoat the 
same. Medals round the necks of children are hateful to me. 
They are mostly a falsehood, as not expressing the absolute rela- 
tive merits of the wearers to their mates. They are often a tes- 
timonial of only apparent excellence ; they are always a bait to 
draw vanity to the surface, and are therefore stimulants of a mor- 
bid emulation. They demoralize the child. On an adult they 
are disgusting, a stain on his manhood, a badge of his subjugation. 
A man to have a bit of ribbon pinned to his breast by another 
man, in token of superiority over his fellows ! The degradation 
is the deeper for its unconsciousness. The tone of manliness is 
so chronically lowered on the Continent of Europe by the habit 
of submission to arbitrary state-power, that men of honorable na- 
ture are insensible to the dishonor that intrinsically attaches to 
the wearing of these " decorations," of which they therefore make 
a peacock-like parade. 

The joyous music of young women's laughter, accompanying the 
martial tramp of numerous strong hoofs in quick gallop, sounds 
close through the leaves, and I have barely time to yield the 
better half of the road, when two English girls, superbly mounted, 
spring by at an Amazonian speed. Their fun seems to be to 
distance their cavaliers, who strain after them in loud glee. " I 
say, Harry," cries one of these, evidently enjoying the sport al- 
most as much as a fox-chase, " this is devilish hard work." 
Four women out of five that one meets on horseback are in swift 
gallop. Our masculine imaginations make the steed look proud 
of his beautiful burthen ; but for all that, I pity a woman's horse. 

Adopting the feminine pace, from the centre of the wood I 
reach the Boulevards in thirty minutes. 

It is past five when, on my way homeward from the 

stable, I cross the Place Venddme, where is another of Napo- 


Icon's military monuments, the column made of brass cannon 
taken from the Austrians and Russians in 1805, surmounted by 
a colossal statue of the Imperial Artilleryman. This column, 
like most of its author's works, is an imitation of a bad model. 
In keeping with its borrowed form, the inscription on the base, 
telling why it was erected, is in Latin. This latinity serves a 
purpose ; for the heartiest admirers of the monument being the 
ignorant, the unknown tongue, while it sharpens their sense of 
their own ignorance, will quicken their admiration ; and thus. 
Napoleon is elevated in proportion to their abasement, — which is 
just as it should be. 

Even the cultivated are somewhat imposed upon by Greek or 
Latin words. These have a big" oracular look. The imagina- 
tion is aroused by the sight of them ere they have spoken. A 
voice sounding across twenty centuries must be freighted with 
import. Thus we are apt to infuse into a quotation from those 
languages a deeper meaning than it ever had ; partly too because, 
no one ever thoroughly understanding a language that he has not 
learnt through the ear as well as the eye, the imagination, with 
its practised self-confidence, fills up the void. 

Nothing exhibits more flagrantly the injustice inherent in 

civilization than the inequality among the dinners served up to 
her children ; and Paris, by the superlative degree to which she 
stretches this inequality, deserves the title she assumes of being 
the capital of the civilized world. Out of her million of inhabi- 
tants, more than half can hardly be said to dine at all. In their 
dark, unfurnished, crowded, infectious lodgings, or, far away 
from these wretched homes, resting at noon from work, the me- 
chanic and day-laborer appease the gross cravings of hunger 
with a stinted portion of the plainest, and often unwholesome, 
innutritions, refuse food. The solace, physical and moral, of a 
leisurely, abundant repast, — due to every man by Nature, and 
which Nature is willing and anxious to pay, — this they never 

DINERS. 141 

have. When two out of three of all who are buried in Paris 
are so at public cost, and one third die in the hospitals, no especial 
skill in statistical arithmetic is needed to estimate, without other 
data, how many of the living daily uphold life by what may be 
called a dinner; that is a wholesome, sufficing meal. When I 
put down the dinnerless at six hundred thousand, I am within 
bounds ; and scores of thousands among these would on many 
days utter in vain the prayer, '' Give us this day our daily bread." 

Of the remaining four hundred thousand, two consist of small 
shop-keepers, best-paid mechanics, clerks at low salaries, the in- 
ferior class of artists, and others, who although they sit down 
with a table-cloth, and even napkins, and wine (at 8 cents a 
bottle), live in the daily habit, — without the virtue, — of obedience 
to the hygienic prescription of rising from dinner with an appetite. 

To make up the million there are two hundred thousand left, 
comprising capitalists who live on their incomes, computed to be 
about seven per cent, of the whole population of Paris, the weal- 
thier professional and literary men and artists, the upper Bour- 
geoisie, bankers, traders and large shop-keepers, and the higher 
office-holders. These are the true diners, the elect (epicureanly 
speaking), for whom capons were discovered and riz de veaii a la 
Jinanciere, for wdiom turbot and oysters of Ostend are brought in 
ice from the sea, and truffles from the south, and asparagus and 
strawberries are forced, and Chainbertin and Lajitte exhale their 
hoiiquet, — men for whom cooks are educated and sauces invented, 
whose forks come from Potosi and their napkins from Silesia, 
men who, in our present up-side-down world, stand on that im- 
measurable height up to which their brother-men gaze with an 
intensely human longing, and an intensely unchristian sensa- 
tion, — that predominating eminence, where they are so far above 
their fellows and the low cares of bread-nourished life, that, with- 
out fear of to-morrow, they can to-day spend five to ten francs, 
and some even twenty or fifty, for a dinner. 


To these may be added forty or fifty thousand strangers, perma- 
nent and transient; and these are a main stay of the Restaurants. 

Turning to the left as I issue out of the rue du Helder towards 
six, and walking up the Boulevard des Italiens a few hundred 
yards, I am surrounded by some of the best Restaurants of Paris, 
the Cafe de Paris, the Maison Doree, the Cafe Riche, and on the 
other side, the Cafe Anglais. At any one of these, at any hour, 
may be had an impromptu dinner of succulent substantial or of 
wholesome delicacies, the first course of which w^ill be served, to 
a man in a hungry hurry, by the time that he has chosen his 
wine. To-day I disregard their solicitations, and entering the 
rue Richelieu pass under the gateway of JSTo. 112, ascend a short 
broad stone stairway, and opening a door with the inscription 
Cercle de la Conversation, find myself in the apartment that 
twenty years ago was widely know^n as the Frascati gambling- 
rooms, now occupied by a club, many of whose members are 
men of letters and artists. Here every day at six a table is laid 
for twelve or fourteen at three francs and a half, a good French 
bourgeois dinner. Here at a private concert, opened by a witty 
poem from the spirituel 31ery, I have heard Godefroi on the harp, 
Lacomhe on the piano, and Herniann on the violin. 

This Club deserves its name, being the only one in Paris where 
there is enough of geniality and of intellectual sociability to create 
the need of cultivated conversation. In tono^ue-skirmishinof, as in 
that on the field, the French are rapid and brilliant. Their minds 
lie near the surface ; they dart in and out with a sparkling agility 
that quickens the wits of all listeners. Just after Lamartine had 
assumed the control of the journal, Le Pays, I asked at dinner a 
Legitimist opposite (the Legitimists all hate Lamartine)* '' Est ce 
que Monsieur Lamartine a achete Le Pays .?" Without the 

* "Has M. Lamartine bought the Paysf — "No, the Pays has bought 
M. Lamartine." — " Capcfigue has a great depth of learning." — " You mean 


pause of a semi-colon he answered, " Non, c'est Le Pays qui a 
achete M. Lamartine." Some one saying of Capejigue, a second- 
rate historical and political writer, that he had " une grande pro- 
fondeur de connaissance." — " Vous voulez dire epaisseur," re- 
joined the same gentleman. I have here heard a French poet 
conclude a graphic picture of the opening of the battle of Trafal- 
gar by declaring that the signal there thrown out by Nelson, — 
^^ England expects every man to do his duty," — was one of the 
most sublime incidents in History. I have heard the military in- 
fallibility of Napoleon questioned and his tactics criticized, and 
the pre-eminence of Shakspeare acknowledged. The French 
have expanded out of their old self-sufficiency ; within fifty years 
they have learnt much from their neighbors and from adversity ; 
from the latter they are just now learning very fast. 

Frenchmen are charged with vanity ; themselves hardly deny 
the charge. But this is one cause of their cheerfulness, and of 
their conversational vivacity ; for vanity is a great weaver of 
cords of connection, which, if not the strongest, are for that the 
more numerous, and being short and taught, wonderfully enliven 
superficial personal relations. A man who wishes to attract your 
regards upon himself, will try to please. That vanity does not 
necessarily make a man agreeable, and is often a large ingre- 
dient in a thoroughly selfish character, we need not go to France 
to learn. The impulse whereof it is the overgrown fruit, has no 
root in the heart, it is purely self-seeking ; nevertheless, in the 
composite movement of associated humanity, it plays a functional 
part. To judge of the heart of a Frenchman, or other man, Paris 
is not a fair place, for nowhere are men more dwarfed by the 
pressure of the heartless motto of civilized life — "Every man for 
himself, and God for us all." This is another testimony in favor 
of the claim of Paris to be the capital of civilization. 

It is not far from eight, when, dinner being some time over, I 
break off from a pleasant after-chat, and take leave of the Club. 


'•' I was introduced to this Club by my friend Henry S. 

San ford, Secretary of the United States Lecration in Paris. An 
act of personal kindness I should not thus publish, were not so 
many of his countrymen under like obligations to Mr. Sanford, 
that an acknowledgment of them here seems not unbecoming, and 
will, I am sure, be acceptable to hundreds of Americans, who in 
the past three or four years have profited by his kindly ser- 

And here let me add a few words in regard to what is expected 
of American Legations in Europe. 

Some citizens of the United States suppose, that 'their citizen- 
ship entitles them in Europe to the acquaintance and attention of 
the United States envoys. This is a mistake. A diplomatic agent 
is a public, not a private servant. So long as the American 
traveller has no complaint against the public authorities for ill- 
usage (and even then in most cases the Consul is the proper func- 
tionary of whom to seek redress), his claim upon the Envoy has 
no stronger basis than that upon other American residents in 
foreign capitals. Equally with the private resident, the Envoy 
retains the right of expanding or contracting his circle of ac- 
quaintance, of choosing his companions, according to his taste or 
his calculations. If, through inclination or policy, he " entertains," 
from the greater facility of obtaining introduction to a public than 
to a private person, a large number of his countrymen will be his 
guests. But his hospitality lies within the bounds of his reserved 
private domain. Whether he lives " like a hermit," or " like a 
prince," is of no concern to any but the small circle to whom the 
closeness or the openness of his house, is a private loss or a pri- 
vate profit. Princely living was wisely not included in the dip- 
lomatic duties of American ministers, by those who established 

* These remarks on American Legations, commenced as a note, have 
stretched so much beyond the expected length, that I have thought it best 
to include them in the text. 


their salaries, and Americans have, as such, no claims on them 
for balls, dinners, or cards. 

What they have a right to expect from them is, that not only 
should they in their official business, which is little and intermit- 
tent, maintain the rights and interests of the United States, — and 
this they do ; but that also in their daily bearing, their habits, 
tone, conversation, that is, in their unofficial conduct, which is 
much and not intermittent, they should uphold the principles to 
which the United States owe their birth, being, and matchless 
welfare, the principles of political justice, of civic equality, of 
republican freedom, — and this they do not. 

European diplomatic agents in America set an example, which 
American diplomatic agents in Europe sliould follow. With 
rarely an exception, the representatives of foreign governments 
resident in this country, are unanimous in their condemnation of 
our institutions, and of all our democratic principles and pro- 
cesses. These feelings of distaste and of oppugnancy to democ- 
racy are not concealed : they need not be. These gentlemen 
represent monarchies and despotisms : their governments are con- 
ducted on principles directly hostile to those which rule us. In 
their opinions, conversation, habits, they manifest the hostility. 
Hereby their official relations are in no manner obstructed or em- 
bittered. They are true to their masters: w^e acknowledge and 
respect their right to be so. They keep themselves as European 
and aristocratic as they can ; nobody objects or takes offence. 

Now on the contrary, the American diplomatic agent in 
Europe, instead of keeping American and republican, is no sooner 
installed, but he sets about to Europeanize and aristocratize him- 
self as much as he can. He bedaubs his carriage with armorial 
bearings (if not inherited, improvised) ; claps livery on his ser- 
vants ; begilds his outside often with more than the official lace ;* 

* A court-dress with modest gold-lace trimmings, is prescribed by our 
Government. This should be done away with, as being at war with our 



finds as many virtues as possible in the royal family where he is 
accredited ; submits to condescensions from his or her Majesty, 
or Royal Highness, and even feels himself thereby elevated; 
affects titled society, and with self-gratulation takes the place 
which his credentials provide for him as a member of the profli- 
gate, arrogant, brazen, soulless, godless circle that surrounds 
every throne in Europe. But for all his obsequiousness, he and 
his are admitted no further than the outer halls of this Temple of 
Belial. Aristocracy is always exclusive, scornful, relentless, as 
close as freemasonry ; a^nd to obtain from it the grasp of fellow- 
ship, one must have other credentials than those received from 
the President of a Democracy. 

How different, and how much more consistent, is the bearing 
of a European envoy. He makes no secret of being bored by 
people and things, public and private, at Washington. So far 
from seeking virtues in the Executive body, he scans it with 
satirical malice ; he picks as many holes as he can in the char- 
acter and intellect of our "great men ;" he quizzes our fashion ; 
he sneers at our pretension ; and when he quits us, he rejoices in 
his departure as the end of an exile. The offspring of Monarchy 
and Aristocracy, he detests our politics and hates our people. 

The offspring of Democracy, if true in like manner to his birth 
and breeding, should regard every Christian king as an usurper, 
every hereditary privilege as a robbery ; and in the presence of 
royalty and nobility, bedizened in court-tinsel, should feel his 
moral sense offended, just as is the immoral sense of the diplo- 
matic scion of nobility in presence of the sovereign people in 
America. The citizen of the United States who has not some- 
thing of this feeling, is a spurious offspring of the Republic. 
However he may vaunt his republican home, he has not a dis- 
cerning, logical appreciation of the blessings he is born to, and is 

universal usage in civil costume. Our Legations should be ordered to ap- 
pear at foreign courts in plain un gilded republican dress. 


not fit fully to represent this great self-governing country in 
prince-ridden Europe. Too many of our envoys have been thus 
disqualified ; and from the commanding position we have now 
reached as the one great Democracy in the world, hostilely ar- 
rayed (in sentiment at least) against the despotisms of Europe, — 
and the object of their fears, their machinations, their hate, — this 
disqualification is become the more discreditable to us, and the 
more hurtful to our true interests. The old and the new are face 
to face in deadly defiance. We are the new, and whoever repre- 
sents us in old Europe, should fully feel the nature and signifi- 
cance of this antagonism, and act throughout accordingly. 

Instead of living the simple, manly life of hearty republicans, 
encompassed but not defiled, by aristocratic carnalities ; seeking 
intercourse with those who are at once the ornaments and pillars 
of a country and the best bonds between their own and other 
lands, the men of science and culture, and large sympathies ; 
breathing encouragement or consolation into the hearts of the 
bleeding workers for truth and humanity ; instead of this honora- 
ble, appropriate, elevated part, which courts by its very heartiness 
the representatives of the only great Republic in the world, too 
many American legations are false to their high mission, and, 
by adopting the thoughts and associations of the implacable foes 
of freedom, lower the American name in Europe. Aping and 
otherwise flattering haughty aristocrats, who patronize and sneer 
at them, and but for the gigantic uplifted arm of Democracy be- 
hind, would despise them, they eagerly rush, with the shallow 
and the idle, into the whirl of oligarchic fashion, and there circle 
round on the outskirts of the dance of frivolity and vanity, until 
too soon a change of administration sounds the knell of their re- 
call ; when, sighing over the loss of so many Lords, Counts, and 
Barons, with whom they have sipped champagne and nibbled 
boned turkey, and sighing still deeper to think, that in exchange 
for these beribboned and betitled Dons, their associates henceforth 


are to be militia Colonels and county court Judges, they sadly re- 
turn home to hog and homony, or pork and molasses. 

Leaving the Club,* I drive far up the Boulevard Poissonniere, 
and then turning into a street to the right soon alight at a Cafe. 
To one familiar with Cafes on the Boulevards, the plainness of 
furniture is all that is at first noticeable. There is the usual 
sprinkling of small tables, brilliant gas-light, and on one side of a 
long room, the raised desk where presides the universal feminine 
Divinity, who fingers the cash and deals out sugar and orders. But 
on calling for beer and segars, to pay for entrance, we find cut on 
the glasses a red triangle, emblematic of the tripple-phrased re- 
publican device. It is a cheap democratic Cafe where mechanics 
and laborers meet in the evening for dominos and gossip, and 
where for a few sous they get a glass of wine or beer with tobacco. 
This is one of the salons of the poor. There are to-day not 
many visitors, and so after putting into the box, modestly pre- 
sented by the waiter, a small contribution for imprisoned and 
exiled democrats, my companion and I withdraw. — In the marais, 
a quarter in the direction of the Faubourg St. Antoine, we alight 
at another. Here in one large hall are ten billiard tables, nearly 
all occupied. The players are probably small clerks, journey- 
men-tailors, and others, whose sedentary vocations earning for 
them from three to five francs a day, they come here to buy an 
hour's exercise with that portion of their incomes which continen- 
tal people, rich and poor, appropriate to amusement. Round the 
best players are groups of pipe-smoking spectators, and dominos 
are clattering in other parts of the hall. There is nothing bois- 
terous or rude ; an air even of refinement pervades the place. 
The inmates seem to be thankfully enjoying a rest after the day's 

* The name and composition of this Club have since been changed, it 
being now called Cercle des deux Mondcs, and counting among its members 
a large number of Americans. 


It is past nine, when having driven back down the Boule- 
vards, I enter the Theatre des Varietes, and take possession of 
a stalle d^orchestre with that pleasant cachinnatory expectation 
wherewith one seats oneself in a Parisian Comic Theatre. 

Flanked by Music and Painting the Histrionic Art here assails 
the spectator with batteries of fun and pleasantry. The Theatre 
Francaisy where Moliere and Corneille, and the Opera, where 
Mozart and Bellini preside, live in the high region of aesthetics. 
But the Varietes and its kindred are mostly in their aims too 
superficial to reach the aesthetic sphere. They deal with facts not 
with feelings ; and their facts are from that omnivorous but unin- 
spired receptacle, the absurd. Though not themselves expressing 
the profound, their representations have depth of significance. 
Just beneath the surface where the ridiculous plays its antics, lies 
a ground of seriousness and sadness. The fantastic figures of the 
Comic are at times but the flickering flames that shoot through 
the crust from an intense tragic fire that consumes the core. 
The absurd is the child of the illogical. The nonconformity to 
reason and divine law in the fundamental relations of men causes 
the discords and complications out of which the comic spins its 
motley web. The truth of comedy is often a demonstration of 
the falsehood of sober life. Many a spectator here joins in the 
laugh at a sally, whose piquancy is the crack of the whip where- 
with his domestic peace is lashed to death. 

At these theatres three or four pieces are given. When the 
Parisian Bourgeois pays for a box, he wishes to spend in it the 
whole evening, and a long one. The second piece was nearly 
over when I entered. The third, the beginning whereof was not 
very sprightly, had proceeded half an hour, when a sudden roar 
in my ears made me start : — I had fallen asleep, and an electric 
burst of merriment had waked me. I strove hard to keep my 
ears alert for the next double entendre, but my eyes refusing to 
back them, I retreated, with the reflection, that a theatre is not the 


place for one who has worked hard all day. The crowd that I 
left so wude awake and in a mood so susceptible to fun, had risen 
late and worked by routine, or not at all. 
My day was ended, whether I would or not. 



To-day, the 26th of July, 1851, I will take one of my last 
walks in the Louvre. 

Cane or umbrella you surrender in the vestibule, in the base- 
ment dedicated to ancient sculpture. Marble walls, marble col- 
umns, marble floor, marble statues in spacious lofty halls, over- 
topped by a palace and enfolded by four feet depth of stone. 
Here is a Temple consecrated to coolness. The dog-days stay 
outside with the umbrellas. Correspondent to the physical tem- 
perature, the moral air is sedative. A man enraged would 
quickly subside here : before these empedestalled ghosts he would 
be ashamed of heat. But you are not depressed, you are tran- 
quillized, you are elevated. Sculpture is serious, not sad ; ideal, 
not servile. The silence, whiteness, solidity, induce meditation. 
The calm of these figures imparts itself to the beholder ; their 
pensiveness is catching. They stand circumfused, and you with 
them, by the atmosphere of the world's early days. Vivid and 
youthful they come from the dim, dead past. They have the 
weight and dignity of age without its weakness. They are fresh 
from the heart of Antiquity. 

I always go first right through to the Gladiator. For two thou- 
sand years those marble limbs have glowed with the splendor of 
the perfect manly form. In presence of the living human body 
in this marvellous completeness, your delight in its power, and 


beauty almost passes into awe ; and then, the intensity of sensa- 
tion is relieved by thoughts on the power and beauty of the hu- 
man mind that could thus reproduce its own body. 

Art is a projection of man out of himself, under the momentum 
of an effort to appease his yearning for beauty. This creative 
warmth, when it results, as in this great sculpture, in the repro- 
duction of nature in her selectest proportions and expressions, im- 
plies mental elevation and intensity. High Art is the offspring 
of the craving for perfection — a most noble parentage. 

Close by is the Venus of Milo, mutilated of the arms, in whose 
erect body, sinking as it were into itself, there is as much sleep- 
ing strength as voluptuousness. In the head and face, and espe- 
cially in the mouth, is a world of power. And herein this Venus 
is higher and truer than the famed one of Cleomenes in the Trib- 
une at Florence. It is a degradation of divine love to present 
its ideal in a rich body with a poor mental organization. This is 
to shorten its wings, to materialize its flame, to sensualize it too 
much. Where the head is so small, as in the statue of the Trib- 
une, all the passions are limited, straitened, belittled. There 
is no channel for the voluminous flood of love, for its exuberant 
ardors, no scope for a wide play of its kindling influence, for its 
deep impregnation of the whole large being with its fire. That it 
be unfolded in its full richness, it should inflame a glowing strong 
nature, such as is indicated by this head of the Louvre. In that 
wealthy mouth there is capacity for more than one passion, and 
the one that predominates is by this opulence ennobled. 

What is the source of the unique perfection in the Grecian 
type of head ? It is, that the brain — itself well proportioned — 
has generated the face. All the features are finely married to 
one another and to the forehead. The Grecian face is sub- 
ordinated to the forehead. Thus the nose is a continuation 
of the line of the brow, from which it has the air of being 
directly descended. A Grecian nose pre-supposes a good brow. 


The mouth and chin are predominated by the nose ; they neither 
coarsely project nor weakly retreat. The same with the cheek 
bones, which are kept back by the intellectual, sensuous superior- 
ities of the forehead, nose and eyes. To say that, in a word, all 
the parts of head and face are in harmony, were not enough ; for 
the essence of the Greek ideal is a harmony growing out of the 
dominance of the superior parts. The Grecian face is not of 
necessity eminently intellectual, but it cannot be animal. There 
may be harmony out of the Grecian type, as there may be and 
is great beauty without prevalence of the Grecian characteristics. 

In the Grecian ideal the brow, the lower range of the forehead, 
is always full, the Greek mind being highly sensuous. In heads 
and faces the furthest removed from the Greek type, there is no 
subordination of face to forehead, and no smooth union among the 
features, nor between them and the brow. Cheek-bones are 
prominent, or nose and chin independent, or nose is scornful of 
its neighbors, acknowledging no pre-eminence in the forehead 
above it, making between itself and the brow a chasm over which 
it petulantly leaps without the aid of a bridge, or springing out 
conceitedly from the rest of the face and going on its own hook. 

The renowned Diana, sister of the Apollo Belvidere, is here ; 
but the warm mood which one brings from the Venus is not that 
most favorable to appreciating the cold beauty of the man-shun- 
ning goddess. So, amid marbles less divinely touched, we will 
pass on to the stairway that leads to the galleries above. 

Architecture holds out her magnificent jewelled hand to conduct 
us from the halls of sculpture to those of painting. The ascent 
of this grand stairway is an enjoyment like that of gazing at a 
sculptured or painted masterpiece. 

Crossing the graceful, enmarbled Rotunda; at the head of the 
stairway, we traverse a gorgeous hall more than one hundred 
feet long, where decorative art has lavished its wealth of gildings 
and mouldings, and from whose upper end we issue directly into 



the great octagon room, on the lofty walls whereof are piled up 
many of the masterpieces of the collection, choice works of the 
columnar men of Art. Here we cannot now tarry ; this is to be 
the luxurious dessert of our day's feast ; so, walking resolutely 
through this treasure-house, we enter the long gallery, which, 
being arranged chronologically, opens with the painters of the 
14th and 15th centuries, whose greatest merit it is that they were 
the predecessors and teachers of Leonardo and Raphael. Had 
they not had such followers, their works would have been un- 
known. The light from the creations of their great pupils draws 
them out of darkness. Due honor to them as having made the 
dawn of an unequalled meridian splendor ; but we have not now 
come to study the development of the art, but to enjoy the pro- 
ducts of its ripeness. , 

In our walk we shall stop before those that in frequent visits 
have oftenest arrested us ; not learnedly to comment on them, but 
to yield ourselves to the sentiment they awaken, attempting at 
most to account for the impression made on us, without aiming at 
critical precision or technical accuracy. Some of unquestionable 
excellence we shall pass by, and where we do pause, we shall 
not always have the most words for those we most prize. We go 
down on the right side. 

In the Fine Arts a sentiment, or incident, or person, or pas- 
sion, must be conveyed into the mind by beauty. If it has not 
beauty for its vehicle it does not reach the inmost soul, but rests 
for a time near the surface, whence it is soon effaced. Only in 
the beautiful is the divine idea vividly present, and therefore only 
by the beautiful is the human soul deeply wrought and fertilized. 
To feel this, first stop before this youthful head by the great 
Leonardo da Vinci, with auburn tresses thickly matted. With- 
out deadening, three centuries have shadowed that beaming brow, 
lour admiring gaze is met by clear, full, soul-softened eyes. 
Through a rich smile the closed ample mouth speaks joy, which 


the eyes second. The up-pointing finger leads your eye to a 
thin, dim cross held in the other hand, and tells you that you are 
looking at St. John, whom, but for this emblem you would have 
taken for a paragon woman, so womanly are the head and face in 
their contour, benignant expression, and superlative beauty. Drink 
deeply of this countenance, and carry away as much of it as you can ; 
the whole Empire of Art offers scarcely anything more inspired. 

Here is Francis I., by Titian. The large sensuous, sensual 
head of the luxurious King is in profile, and you at once perceive 
that this was the best view of him, as it always is of a man of 
his organization and temperament. This head is charged with 
electricity ; it scintillates with life. 

By the side of another superb portrait of Titian is the head of 
Tintoret, by himself, earnest, grizzly, vigorous. 

Artists being the servants of Beauty, which is the twin-sister 
of Hope, should be hopeful when saddest : they should be op- 
timists. Tragic subjects treated in this transfiguring spirit are 
rare. Hence I avoid Crucifixions ; but it is impossible to pass 
this small one by Paul Veronese, it stands out in such ghastly 
clearness against that sickly sky. Only strong genius is equal 
to this awful theme, so that by the grandeur of the treatment 
Art bemasters the tragic with the sublime. Even the great Ru- 
bens hardly does this ; his Crucifixion in the Museum at Ant- 
werp is too terrific. His masterpiece is the Descent from the 
cross, by some deemed the masterpiece of the world. In a De- 
scent, the agony being over, the heart is not lacerated, and yet 
the whole feeling of the divine tragedy is brought home. 

Venus and Mars, with attendant Cupids, by Lucca Giordano. 
This little picture is buoyed up by the warmth of its coloring ; 
it seems almost to float on the air. Mark the little Cupids, one 
of them with a dog, how intent they are on their own play, as 
if their work was done, and they were taking a holiday. 

Cast a glance at the Canalettos and Guardis, with whom canal 


and quay, marble and water, fluid and solid, are but accessories 
to exhibit the transparence of a Yenitian atmosphere. 

We have arrived at the Holy Family, by Murillo, before which 
we would fain distend our faculty of admiration. The mother is 
seated, the child Jesus standing on her knee, taking hold of the 
cross held by the child St. John below, the lamb is on the ground 
before St. John's feet, the dove over the head of Jesus, and the 
Father is bending over all from the clouds in an attitude of 
love and benediction. A rosy freshness with harmony of color, 
perfect grouping, and an expression from the whole of religious 
serenity and holy sweetness, hold you before this picture in a 
state which proves to you the exalting power of Art. The ab- 
sence of a shining ideal in the heads is made up for by depth of 
feeling, simplicity, naturalness, and grace. 

Hanging next it is a landscape by Collantes, full of Southern 
richness and Spanish passion. 

Here is a Salvator Rosa that would whet an assassin's lust 
for blood. I don't mean the grand battle-piece, but the stormy 
landscape, the rock-fronted desolation, with corseletted bandits 
perched on a precipice. 

Walk on until you are stopped by the light which breaks as 
through a window, from a Holy Family resting in their flight 
by Albani. Not the first one, but the second. No. 6. [In the 
first one, No. 5, the landscape is the best.] Winged Angels are 
offering flowers to the Child, who leans forward from his mother's 
lap to take them. The landscape looks illuminated by the holy 
travellers. The figures are wrought with miniature fineness, 
without weakness. Two Cherubs flying down with a basket of 
flowers, is a picture within a picture. 

We are now in the Rubens' Gallery. This series of colossal 
canvas exhibits the boundless conception and invention of Ru- 
bens. But his hands could not gather up all the wealth that his 
brain shook down. 


Teniers exemplifies the force of truth. Vividly reproduce Na- 
ture in full moments, and without your seeking it the electric 
light of beauty will radiate from your canvas. The Temptation 
of the Anchorite is such a picture as Burns would have painted, 
had he w^orked with pencil. It is sparkling with strength and 
fun. And so brilliantly executed, such a transparency of light 
and shade, such reality and vivacity of comic effects. The 
bearded head of the Anchorite is grand. 

Gerard Dow, Ostade, Mieris, express the delight there is in the 
artistic reproduction of simple, homely objects. With them. Art 
concentrates itself into microscopic fidelity. But there is some- 
thing more than this. Look at the Seller of game, by Mieris ; it 
is ideal as well as real, so select is each object, and wrought with 
such fineness of texture, which fineness is itself a phasis of the 

At the end of this compartment are the Vandykes. The best 
one is on the other side. If you wish to be spoken to by a pic- 
ture, put yourself face to face with the portrait next to the col- 
umn, the gentleman with open collar and dark velvet doublet. 

Before coming upon Wouvermans, there is a single Moucheron, 
a strip of French elegant rurality, with vases and an orange sky, 
a glorious segment cut out by genius from Nature's wide land- 

Two Boths, with skies that are active with life. Whoso can 
paint the air in motion with sun in it is a master of landscape. 
That is the key ; the rest may by many be acquired ; that is the 
gift. In a picture, as in nature, good air is the first necessary ; 
it vitalizes each tiniest part. 

A few steps further is a small Heus, a gem of tone, color, deli- 
cacy and truth ; warm and happy. 

Here is a Cuyp, with shepherds and cows, which warms the 
whole of the broad canvas it covers. It has the virtue of cheer- 


Then we have a wealth of Ruysdaels, Yan Bergens, and one 
Hobbema,* who is the painter of coolness. The Yan Bergen 
next to it glows in contrast with pleasant summer heat. 

We pass a number of good Dujardins to get to the better Berg- 
hems. There are eight or nine of them, all with sleek cattle 
and shepherdesses, and all full of health and content. Cattle tell 
of home and sufficiency. We like to see them thus honored by 
Art ; it pays part of our debt to them. 

Amid them is a large Wynants, strong enough to stand its ground 
in such proximity. Let us not overlook a Yintrank over the last 
Berghem. It is a sample of modest merit. 

We have reached the French department, beginning with a 
long line of landscapes by Poussin. His pictures want freedom 
and lightness, and especially they want atmosphere, whereby 
their grace of composition is blurred. He has been called the 
learned Poussin. He could never be called the inspired. His pic- 
tures are faded ; and even the cheerful subjects have a sad look. 

The glory of French art is Claude Lorrain, the lustrous, as he 
might be termed. He has visited the sun, and brought away the 
secret of its light. His pictures are heated by so natural a fer- 
vor, that it seems supernatural. It looks not like art, but intu- 
ition. But besides this there is an unfading grace in his forms, 
whether of hill, tree, bridge or building. His water is luminous. 

Go to the end of the gallery for the sake of a head by Lefevre. 
In this head in^he mystery of all great portraits. The features 
and flesh are transparent by means of a light burning within, 
which makes the blood tingle to the surface. 

We have walked fourteen hundred feet in a straight line ; we 
will return on the other side. 

Pass the long, stiff, uniform regiment of lifeless Lesueurs, and 

* My friend, Thomas J. Bryan, of Philadelphia, for many years a resi- 
dent of Paris, has in his collection a Hobbema of higher quality than this 


only stop for a moment before a head by Ferdinand Bol, in which 
students of Harvard of a quarter of a century back will recognize 
good President Kirkland energized. 

A few steps further is the exquisite Yanderfelde, an evening 
cattle-piece, with the purple-tinted sky reflected in the glassy 

We skip a long file to get to a portrait before which I always 
linger longer than before any other in the Louvre, No. 389, by 
Phillipe de Champagne. The lips are slightly parted, for there 
is more life within than could be supported by breathing through 
one inlet. From the polish on the hair to the dew of the eye, 
there is everywhere inflation of life. The flesh has the pulpy 
look that belongs to an in-door man, and the transparent hand 
knows of no rough handlings. Pause here still to wonder at the 
vivifying power there is in the fingers of man when moved by a 
genial brain. 

Next we have three landscapes by Pynaker, three graces. 
Here are skies as warm and lively as Claude Lorrain's ; not so 
dazzling, because freshened by more northern clouds and less 
expansive. Every object is rounded by the mellow ripening air. 
Clover is growing sweeter every hour, and peaches more juicy. 
The distances are as true as an Indian's sight. 

Stop before a fruit-piece by Mignon, the one with the melon 
and the red Indian corn, and the summer ripeness and luxuriance. 
To judge from a glimpse we get through a leaf-darkened arch, 
the landscape beyond is fine, but is shut out by overgrowth of 
August foliage. 

Six naked children dancing in a ring, hand in hand, to music 
by a maiden on a triangle, by Giraud de Lairesse. The treat- 
ment is not equal to the conception and composition, and to the 
sensibility denoted by the choice of subject. 

Three landscapes by Asselyn, which might serve as pendants 
to those of Pynaker. 


Next to these is a nest of Poelembergs, who should be styled 
the pearly. A practised discernment might, one would think, in 
the characteristics of the work, detect those of the artist. Yet 
the engraved portrait of PoeJemberg is not at all wanting in bold- 
ness and virility, while his pictures look as though the hand that 
painted them had been as soft as that of a petted woman. 

I am not attracted by architectural pictures, but I cannot pass 
by Pannini's interior of St. Peter's at Rome, painted on a canvas 
about seven feet by five. The elevation, the vastness, the rich- 
ness, the spaciousness, the play of light through gigantic arches, 
the grandeur and gorgeousness of the marble world, all is there. 

It is wearing late, and the large hall awaits us. We must 
hasten by the Carraccis and the Guides, the tears in the eyes of 
whose upturned feminine faces are drops distilled from the seren- 
est depths of Heaven. But here is a countenance we can never 
pass without a greeting. Look at that youthful, mild, thoughtful, 
beardless, beautiful, womanly, profound face. Coleridge some- 
where says that high poetic genius is largely feminine. The 
mind of universal sympathies has twofold elements. The type 
and exponent of humanity, it partakes of woman's as well as 
man's nature. The truth of this is exemplified in the picture be- 
fore us, and in the character of him of whom it is the portrait. 
It is that of the youthful Raphael, 

that beaming face, 

Where intellect is wed to grace. 

!N"ow we are back to the octagon Hall, seated before the vast 
renowned Paul Veronese, the Feast of Cana. This picture repre- 
sents not a solemn miracle, but a pleasant festival ; it is agreeable, 
not great. Its merits are in coloring and individualities ; as a 
whole it is prosaic. Neither the head nor the position of Jesus is 
predominant. But for the glory, it would hardly be recognized. 
The foreground is filled by the musicians, who should be nowhere 


visible. The two wings of the table pull the eyes from one to 
the other across the wide canvas. In a sacred subject such 
gross anachronisms of costume and architecture are not allowable. 
Take away the Christ, and the picture becomes more satisfactory. 
It has not the elevation and holiness which that subduing presence 
should shed, whatever the subject. 

Two hours of standing and walking, with eyes and brain 
stretched before scores of differing mind- moving objects, drain 
the nervous reservoir. It has just replenished itself by a delicious 
slumber of twenty minutes, whereto the deep, springy, soft-backed 
ottoman was accessory. A day-sleep I never enjoyed more than 
this, and rise up re-animated to finish my grateful task. 

The master is shown by the selection of subjects, and then by 
his mastery in treatment over a good choice. Capability of grace 
is the highest test of a pictorial subject. The artist having the 
insight and sensibility to appreciate this test, his next step is to 
make the most of this capability in his execution. Look at the 
Correggio on the left of the Supper of Cana. Here is grace in 
forms, in attitude, in grouping, in expression. 

Beauty does not necessarily involve grace. Grace is the 
matrix of beauty, but the offspring sometimes neglects the parent. 
Grace is the finer essence, an emanation or a movement which is 
more than corporeal beauty. " The beautiful," says Plato, " is 
the splendor of the true." The graceful may be called the spirit 
of the beautiful. Grace is always beautiful, but beauty is not 
always graceful. 

Contrast with this divine Correggio the Giorgione next to it. 
Those two nude female figures look as though they had been fatted 
for roasting. 

Talent cannot reveal, it can only perceive what is already re- 
vealed ; new things it invests with old forms. Genius not only 
reveals, but to old things it gives a new face. See that Raphael, 
the winged St. Michael descending, spear-pointed, upon the pros- 


trated Devil. Here is grandeur magnified, simplicity ennobled, 
by grace. What lightness in the down-flashing angel, and at the 
same time what power; how strength is spiritualized by beauty. 
The wings here give impetus to the blow. Wings help a descend- 
ing figure ; but when the figure ascends, their inadequacy to lift 
the human body will mingle in and weaken the effect. The 
wings idealize the combat, which without them would be prosaic, 
like all combats, the which are therefore subordinate subjects of 
Art. The cultivated sensibility, which in health rejects real 
horrors, digests easily the factitious when handled in this style. 
In Raphael as in Shakspeare instinct and judgment work to- 

The Correggio opposite, Antiope and Jupiter in form of a satyr, 
with its glittering beauty in the head and limbs of Antiope, falls 
short of perfection from the ungraceful foreshortened position of 
the body. 

The comic dispenses with grace, or rather it veils it with a play- 
ful mask. In the corner is an Ostade, wherein is more of the 
comic than probably the artist intended. It is a schoolroom, with 
urchins at anything but their books, and presents a quiet rich con- 
trast between pedagogy and nature, between compulsion and 
liberty, the teacher being the most compelled. What transpar- 
ence, individuality, reality. The light goes into every corner, 
and the shadows too are- everywhere. You can measure the 
dimensions of the room. 

Further to the left is a Solario, a Mother suckling her child, 
before the which you can commit no extravagance of praise, such 
a clustering of beauties is there. You think the mother's face the 
most beautiful you ever saw, so beaming is it with maternal joy. 
Then fix your look on the infant, holding, in the playful fulness 
of life, one foot in his hand. After you have wondered at the 
creative eflicacy of Art, cap your admiration with a gaze into his 
half-closed eye. I know not what is the judgment of traditional 


criticism on this picture, but to me it is one of the master- works of 
the Louvre. 

We pass a female head of Rembrandt, glowing in the golden 
mist that he steeps his heads in, and pause before a Raphael 
beside it, another maternal incarnation, and we let the breath of 
genius inflate enthusiasm till it floods. Here is a rainbow of ex- 
pression whose feet are the countenances of the ecstatic St. John 
and the sleeping child, and its arch that of the benignant mother. 

Next is another woman. But here is no deep emotion inspiring 
the countenance. There is no sparkling flush of feeling on the 
surface. The soul is not out on the face, it sleeps behind. Gaze, 
and you will become aware of it, and at the same time not wish 
it more revealed. The power of beauty here suffices ; its excess 
is its inspiration. Anything more were too much, and would 
overcome the artist. This is beauty in its calm splendor, in its 
dazzling ripeness. It is " Titian's Mistress." 

Beauty in Art, itself the highest artistic creation, is in turn 
creative, inbreeding in the beholder new thoughts, dilating him 
into a higher, happier susceptibility. 



In one of the " Latter Day Pamphlets," Mr. Carlyle asks 
tauntingly, what have the Americans done ? — We have abolished 
Monarchy, we have abolished Aristocracy ; we have sundered 
Church and State ; we have so wrought with our English inheri- 
tance, that most Englishmen better their condition by quitting the 
old home and coming to the new. We have consolidated a State, 
under whose disinterested guardianship the cabined and strait- 
ened of the old world find enlargement and prosperity. We have 
suppressed standing armies ; we have decentralized government 
to an extent that before our experiment was deemed hopeless ; 
we have grown with such a dream-like rapidity, as to stand, after 
little more than a half-century of national existence, prominent on 
the earth among the nations ; and this, through the wisdom of 
political organization, whereby such scope is given to industry 
and invention, that not only are our native means profitably de- 
veloped, but the great influx of Europeans is healthfully absorbed. 
We have in fifty years put between the Atlantic and the Pacific 
an Empire of twenty-five millions, who work more than any 
twenty-five millions on earth, and read more than any other fifty 
millions. We have built a State at once so solid and flexible, 
that it protects all without oppressing any. Our land is a hope 
and a refuge to the king-crushed laborers of Europe, and from 
the eminence above all other lands to which it has ascended, by 


our forecast, vigor, and freedom, it is to the thinker a demonstra- 
tion of the upward movement of Christendom, and a justification 
of hopes that look to still higher elevations. 

Mr. Carlyle's sneers at our lack of heroism would be unworthy 
of him, from their very silliness, were they not more so from their 
sour injustice. Let any People recite its heroic deeds, on flood 
or field, since we were a nation, and we will match every one of 
them. And in the private sphere, where self-sacrifice, devotion, 
courage, find such scope for heroic virtues, our social life is warm 
with them. But this is no theme for words. For his unworthy 
ones, we deem ^vell enough of Mr. Carlyle to believe, that, when 
disengaged from the morbidly subjective, and therefore blinding 
and demoralizing moods, to which he is liable, he is ashamed of 
having printed them. It looks somewhat as though this passage 
had been written just to give us an opportunity of victorious re- 
tort, or to tempt us into an exhibition of our national propensity to 
brag, — a propensity, be it said, which is national in every na- 
tion we know anything of, whether English, French, German, or 
Italian. We only beat them in bragging, just as we beat them 
in ploughs and statues, in clippers and steamboats, in whalemen 
and electric telegraphs, in cheap newspapers and cheap govern- 
ment. They all do their best at bragging, and so do we, — and 
we beat them. 

The mummies of Egypt are a type of conservatism, — a child- 
ish effort to perpetuate corporeal bulk, to eternize the perishable, 
to subordinate essence to form, to deny death. The result is a 

It were hard to say, whether in this "villainous world" there is 
more of malignant censure, or of unclean praise. 


Hereditaiy aristocrats are puppets to whom motion is imparted 


by wires, inserted under ground into the dead bones of their fore- 

In England, money is the only means wherewith to get what 
is called a " good education." The best is poor enough, to be 
sure. For want of culture, the minds and souls of the masses 
stagnate in a brutish obscurity, or blindly stir in a chaotic twi- 
light. Thus are the noblest and highest faculties in man dependent 
for their unfolding and growth, on gold, — gold, which in our pres- 
ent society, is ever obtained by accident, by self-immolation, or by 
fraud. The treasure of God is in the keeping of Mammon. — With 
us, public schools greatly assuage this evil. 

In civilized life, — which is a universal battle, — truth forms the 
reserve, and is only brought up at critical junctures. 

There are spiritual egotists, people who self-complacently as- 
sume to be the elected of God. The humility of such is a weed 
nourished in the rank soil of pride ; their belief is mostly an in- 
duration on the fancy of a shallow nature. 

Many of the self-righteous are not only proud of their supposed 
nearness to God, but assume towards him patronizing airs ; so 
monstrous are the effects of pride in combination with religion. 

Music is a marriage of the sensual with the spiritual. Each 
is merged in the other. In perfect harmony there will be neither 
sensual nor spiritual, but the two will be made one in the fulness 
of life and purity. 

One has at times the desire to cast away one's personality, with 
all the petty memories and imaginations that cling around self, 
and to bound off into the empyrium of the Universal. Thus dis- 


encumbered, the Intellect and Soul might make great discoveries. 
Is not this the secret of the far-seeing glances of some of the 
mesmerized, that they are emancipated from the bonds of self, 
and for the time lifted out of the obscurities of fleshly life, into 
the translucent sphere of the disembodied ? 

Galileo calls doubt the father of inventions. 

The practical might imparted by integrity is seldom fully val- 
ued. Hence Washington is underrated by some men, who judge 
him by his intellect and prudence. 

Our habitation, the Earth, is not self-subsisting ; it moves in 
dependence on a heavenly body far distant. The Sun's light 
helps to feed the breath of our bodies ; and shall we from the soil 
beneath our feet, from the dust into which our bodies dissolve, 
draw the breath of our souls ? If millions of miles off is one of 
the chief sustainers of our flesh, where should we look for the 
source of the spirit we feel within us ? 

When a man's conversation consists chiefly of reminiscence, 
he may be said to talk backwards. 

People in high places who are not beneficent, are out of place 
on an elevation. 

When there have been great examples of virtue, revealing the 
capabilities of human nature, crime in the powerful is more 
criminal than in earlier inexperienced times. The selfishness of 
Napoleon is more repugnant than that of Caesar. 

In many cases when people speak of their conscience, conceit 
is mistaken for conscience 


When man is young, the whence he is and the mysteriousness 
of his being possess his nascent thoughts. Later, he occupies 
himself about the object and ends of his existence. Hence the 
religious dreams of nations in their youth • and the philosophies 
of nations that are cultivated. 

Prqaching is in these days not unlike shovelling sand with a 

Men whose masterly vigor was the servant of expediency not 
of principle, self-seekers not truth-seekers, liars in act and in 
thought, were Cromwell and Bonaparte. 

The Hebrews mounted to the idea of unity ; but their God 
was revengeful, ^' a jealous God,*' and therefore false and sub- 

The Greeks were more intellectual and much more aesthetic 
than the Hebrews ; yet one cannot conceive of Christianity ori- 
ginating in polytheistic Greece, it could only spring up in mono- 
theistic Judea. 

To the opinions and creeds they have received from their fa- 
thers men hold as to the houses and lands they have inherited. 
Conservatism is a sort of materialism, men confounding the spir- 
itual with the material, and treating him who takes away their 
opinions like him who steals their cattle ; in their density not per- 
ceiving that, instead of a theft, the destruction of their opinions is 
a barter whereby they may gain a hundred-fold. Thoughts are 
subject to higher laws than things. 

Beliefs imply non-beliefs. Creeds are compounded mainly of 

The remedy for England is to turn, not her waste lands to use, 


but her waste mind, her waste .intellect and feeling. This, the 
most precious domain she possesses, is half tilled in patches. 

Good rhetoric is a good thing in a good cause. 

By continuous breach of the moral law, men forfeit mental 
growth. Napoleon and Cromwell grew not wiser as they grev/ 
older. Their minds did not ripen, they petrified. 

On the Continent of Europe it looks as though government had 
been made first, and man afterwards. 

The great recent discoveries of Gall, of Fourier, of Priesnitz, 
all combine to make apparent the resources, the incalculable 
vigors, the inborn sufficiency of man. 

In England so many people look as though they were waiting 
for my lord. 

That with all the mind's achievements, practical and poetical, 
its conquests in science, its Christian and intellectual develop- 
ment, its many enlargements and emancipations, there still should 
be so much evil, so much misery, proves how wide a swing man- 
kind must make to fulfil its destiny. Hereby are denoted opu- 
lence, and depth, and complexity of power. 

In this light, evil is a whip to urge moral effort up to high 
tension. Society perfects itself through tribulation. Man may 
be figured as at first lying in the low places of life, with but dim 
sparse glimmerings into upper fields. Out of a night of animal 
being, little by little he struggles into the day of a wider hu- 
manity, his struggles getting fiercer as he rises. As feeling and 
thought unfold themselves, his inward conflicts grow warmer and 
deeper. The grandeurs of his nature loom out as much in endu- 


ranee as in aetion. The terrible, the pathetic, the sublime, are 
the great oflspring of his throes, the tokens of his splendor and 
his resources. Through this stormy region, darkened by chasms 
and abysses, he ascends to one more serene, where, under influ- 
ences wrought out by his higher self, he breathes an atmosphere 
predominated by spiritual elements. -He grows in intellect by 
working with Nature in her richest fields ; and with his heart 
purified by beauty, and enlarged and strengthened into freer 
communion witli God, he attains at last to a blessed activity, a 
creative calm. 

Shakspeare's words, when boldest and richest, are but ambas- 
sadors, behind whom there is a greater than themselves. Ra- 
cine's and Afieri's, though not so erect and gorgeous, are the 
Kings themselves, and thus leave nothing untold, and feed not 
the imafijination. 

To see things as they are, one must have sympathy with the 
Spirit of God, whence all things come. Then can be discerned 
to what degree there is remoteness from original design, and thus 
actual conditions be rightly judged. 

In the style of Shakspeare there is an oceanic undulation. In 
that of Corneille and Racine the surface is level, or if broken, it 
is with furrows, not with billows. 

In poetry, much of the meaning is conveyed by the sound. 
Transpose the words of a fine passage, and you impair its import. 

You may gather a rainbow out of one of Rubens's great pictures. 

A sonnet should be like a spring, in being clear and deep in 
proportion to its surface ; and like a whirlpool, in a certain silent 
self-involved movement. 


The mind is defiled that comments habitually on the vices of 
others. One that is undefiled, cannot long endure the fumes that 
arise from the stirring of moral filth. 

When a man readily gives ear to a calumny, he betrays fellow- 
feeling with the malignity whence it sprang. 

Forms soon waste the substance they are designed to hold. 
Thus ceremony and hypocritical corporeal salutations get to be a 
substitute for genuine politeness ; religion is crushed under a 
burthen of ritual observances ; paper-money drives out metal, to 
represent which, it was invented. 

Some of Wordsworth's poetry is, like his person, too gaunt ; it 
wants a fuller clothinfy of flesh. 

Many of the old monasteries were founded by repentant repro- 
bates ; and the early sins of their founders seem to have borne 
fuller crops, than their latter virtues. 

Every now and then a woman sallies boldly into our territory ; 
as if she wanted to make reprisals on the tailors. 

When you build selfishly, you build frailly. When your acts 
are hostile to the broad interests of your fellow-men, they are 
seed which will one day come up weeds, to choke your own har- 

A man with wounded feelings walks into the country, and 
there the perfumes and sweet aspects of Nature accost his heart 
with consolation. 

Rhymes should sit as lightly on verse, as flowers on plants. 


Poetry is not put into verse to please the ear ; it is in verse be- 
cause it is the offspring of a spirit akin to that which dwells ever 
in hearing of the music of the spheres. To poetry, rhythm is as 
natural, as symmetry to a beautiful face. Genuine verse pleases 
the ear, because like the voice of childhood or of woman, it is in 
itself delightful. The setting sun, a lively landscape, a noble 
deed, give pleasure, because they speak to and are in harmony 
with our higher being ; and so is poetry, and therefore it too gives 
pleasure. But to say, that the object of poetry is to give pleasure, 
is to rank it with the shallow inventions of the showman. 

In the drama, the incidents should all grow out of the charac- 
ters. Individual characterization is the mystery of the drama. 
He who docs not unlock this mystery, fails to achieve a genuine 
drama, whatever may be his other excellencies. 

The strong genius who rules, as strong genius always does, 
his fellows, feeds them from the common springs of humanity, 
with evil or with good, through the vast channels of his own 
mind. If himself evil, the evil of his time sways his contempo- 
raries through him. Into himself he collects the black vapors of 
falsehood, and blasts them forth over the world or his country, 
with a tempestuous power, before which the good and the true 
shrink for a time into privacy and silence. But what he does, 
however stupendous, lacks life ; for evil cannot create, it can 
only obstruct or arrest creative good. 

The poet is the pupil of truth ; for the false can never be poetry. 

The dramatic writer, says Lessing, as his production is to be 
seen as well as heard, is somewhat under the restrictions of the 

Lessing, who may almost be called the father of modern criti- 


cism, thinks that the chief cause of the inferiority of the Romans 
in tragedy, was their gladiatorial combats. In the words of De 
Quincey, who has adopted this opinion, ^' the amphitheatre extin- 
guished the theatre.*' 

In sunny, fruitful, populous Italy, naught is so alive as the 
voice of the long-dead Dante. Sick at heart, the Italian, prince- 
ridden and priest-ridden, goes to his home, saddened by the exe- 
cution, or imprisonment, or exile of a son or brother, and there, 
to fly from the present, he opens his Dante ; — and soon his pulse 
beats strong again, and his eye glistens, and he gains assurance 
of his own manhood, and he hopes and he dares. 

Where in English Prose is there a diction so copious, apt, force- 
ful, as Carlyle's, at once so transparent with poetic light and so 
compact with a home-driving, idiomatic solidity, doing the errand 
of a thoughtful fervent nature with such fulness and emphasis ? 

Possibly the mind cannot, in its most far-piercing imaginations, 
outrun its capabilities. Were it a law of being, that the bright- 
est flowers, unfolded in the sun of the heart's warmest day-dreams, 
contain the seeds of substantial realities ? 

Just ideas are the only source of healthy moral life ; by them 
are institutions moulded, and to uphold institutions which ideas 
have outgrown, is to be destructive, not conservative. They are 
the highest benefactors of their race who can discern and apply 
the deepest ideas ; and thus the boldest reformer may be the 
truest conservative. 

The Greeks and the English seem to be the only two nations 
possessing enough sap and vigor and fulness of nature, to repro- 
duce themselves in distant soils, through colonists that swarmed 
off from the parent hive. 


What power there is in belief, and what power in falsehood, 
in our sensual organization of society, that sinful, semi-pagan 
Rome is still the so-called spiritual head of the half of Chris- 

In Italy the living is clewed to the dead : the carcass of the 
past lies athwart the legs of the present. 

The increasing delight in Natural Scenery is one of the proofs 
that man is growing nearer to God. 

We talk of this man's style and that man's, when, rightly 
speaking, neither of them has a style. Style implies a substantial 
body of self-evolved thought. The mode and quality of the 
clothing in words and phrases to this original body constitutes 
style. Now, from so few minds come fresh emanations, that most 
writinfjs are but old matter re-worded, current thought re-dressed. 
Each one's individual mode of re-wording and re-dressing is, 
and should be called, his- 7nanner, not his style. In Writing as in 
Painting, every man, the weakest as w^ell as the strongest, must 
have a manner, but few can have a style. 

To be souijht and cherished is the man whose mind is too larc^e 
to be filled by creeds and systems, and too generous to close 
itself against any wants of humanity. The mental home of the 
true man is among principles, and principles are infinitely ex- 

People nominally worship God one day in the week, and 
really worship Mammon seven. 

The errand and sublime are in the exuberance of rudimental 
energy. Heaving and glowing with creative power, they stand 


apart, too stern to coalesce, too overbearing for harmony. They 
are Strength not yet married to Grace. Hence they generally 
precede the beautiful. Phidias came before Praxitiles, Michael 
Angelo before Raphael, ^schylus before Sophocles. 

1st Boy (tauntingly). Who was that man with your father ? 
2d Boy. That man's worth more than your father. 
1st Boy. He was drunk, anyhow. 
2d Boy. He's worth two houses. 

1st Boy (worsted). Ho, I guess my father's worth two houses, 
too. (Street dialogue, Newport, R. L, Jan. 26, 1848.) 

St. Augustine calls Homer, '^ Sweet liar." 

The Bible should be studied with activity of spirit. Its great 
heart will not beat but to the throbbing of yours. Just to read 
it passively, traditionally, dulls the very susceptibility through 
which it is to be taken in. Not thus will you find God in the 
Bible. Who has not first sought him in his own heart and in 
the life around him, will scarcely find him there at all. God is 
not locked up in the Bible : he is at all times around, within us. 
Strive with Jesus to feel his presence. Then you may hope for 
purification, for inspiration : then your heart may produce bibli- 
cal chapters. For what is in the Bible came out of the human 
soul, touched to inspired utterances by the awakened inward 

The Priests of Rome discourage intercourse with God through 
the Bible, which is already at one remove. Themselves they 
constitute the sole interpreters of the divine, the sole medium of 
communication between God and man. The divine essence tliey 
would first distil through the foul alembic of their brazen egot- 
ism. Hence, where they long dominate, religion becomes mate- 


rialized, and for uplifting, soul-purging knowledge of God, is 
substituted abasing, sensual submission to priesthood. 

Widely and kindly around us must we look as well as in- 
wardly and upwardly, or we leave untenanted some of the heart's 
best chambers. Our breasts are laro-e enou^^h to entertain mul- 
titudes, and only wlien thus filled is our daily life a full blessing. 

Our poor social organization engenders vacuums, w^hich are 
apt to fill with wind. Hence, most of Northern '^ abolitionism," 
and other pseudo-philanthropies. Many people are not comfortable 
without pets or hobbies. It is not the poor African that is the 
pet, — would that it were, — but a something abstract, an ideal for- 
mula, a pet of the mind. That it cannot become concrete, is its 
chief qualification as a hobby. It can be ridden the more 
showily and at the same time safely. Snuffing perfume from 
the fields sown by a philanthropized imagination, the rider ca- 
reers along with a plethoric self-complacency, and really believes 
that he is doing something. And so he is, in truth, but some- 
thing different from what he believes. This class of people have 
discovered the secret of making virtue easy. 

An ape is a creature who has approached the gates of reason, 
and.^ stands there grinning and jabbering in tragi-comical igno- 
rance of his nearness to the regal palace. 

Religious humility is apt to be accompanied by personal ar- 

So luminous and creative is the mind, that what is brought to 
it through the imagination is often more stirring than the same 
presented by the senses. Hence, some scenes are more exciting 
if well told, than if actually beheld. The mind magnifies and 
adorns them in its immeasurable chambers. 


We seek happiness by heaping on our puny selves all we can, 
each one building, according to the joint force of his intellect and 
selfishness, a reversed pyramid, under the which the higher it 
rises the lower he is crushed on the small spot his small self can fill. 

We are capable of life-long joy. Continuous, varied enjoy- 
ment might be the sum of earthly existence. If our lives will not 
bring out this sum, it is because men have misplaced, or mislaid, 
or overlooked, or misreckoned with some of the counters. 

When we sow the best fields of life with our appetites, we can- 
not but reap hates and fears. Blighting disappointment comes 
from thwarted greeds, from frustrated self-seeking. 

A fit ideal embodiment of the artist were a countenance up- 
raised, beaming, eager, joyful, moulded with somewhat of femi- 
nine mobility. 

Goethe goes out of himself into the being of natural objects. 
Wordsworth takes their being up into himself. These two poets 
illustrate sharply the dilference between the ohjective and the sub- 

Envy, like venomous reptiles, can only strike at short distances. 

There is no deeper law of nature than that of change. 

A book should be a distillation. 

Everything that we do being a cause, he is the most sagacious 
who so does that each cause shall have its good effect. This 
practical long-sightedness is wisdom, the want of it foolishness. 
To-days are all fathers of to-morrows, but like many other fathers, 


they sadly neglect their paternal duties. To-day, if it thinks at 
all, thinks of itself, and leaves to-morrow to take care of itself. 
Life is a daily laying of eggs, sonae to be hatched to-morrow, 
some next month, some next year, some next century. Many are 
not hatched at all, but rot or are broken ; many come premature- 
ly out of the shell, and perish from debility ; and thus that much 
life is wasted. Charity is long-sighted, selfishness is short-sighted. 
And yet, so defective is our social constitution, that a man may 
be long-sighted in using his neighbor for his own ends. Thus 
doctors, — who are short-sighted when they take their own physic, 
which they seldom do, — are long-sighted when they give it to 
their patients^ for the more of it these take, the oftener the doc- 
tor is called. It were a mistake to suppose that parsons are 
long-sighted because they set their minds so much upon the next 
world ; their long-sightedness consists in directing other people's 
thoughts to that quarter, while from the super-mundane specta- 
tors they draw the wherewithal to be content with this. — Lawyers 
are short-sighted when they encourage litigation; the long- 
sighted know that the perverted passions of civilized men will 
bring grist enough to their mill without their stir. — Tailors intend 
to be long-sighted when they stitch on your buttons instead of 
sewing them. — The man who sells rum is short-sighted, but less 
so than he who drinks it. — Authors are very short-sighted when 
they write to please the public, instead of writing to please the 
truth. — Expedients are short-sighted, principles long-sighted ; 
and notwithstanding the apparent prosperity of some liars, nothing 
is so lon2:-sio;hted as truth. 

In the plainest of Wordsworth's many hundred sonnets thepe is 
more or less of the fragrant essence of high humanity. 

To write a good book on any subject requires the " instinct of 
the beautiful." 


'' You cannot serve God and Mammon :" nay, you cannot serve 
yourself and Mammon. 

To weave the wondrous form wherewith life invests itself in 
humanity, the heart works ceaselessly, and every organ, member, 
part and particle of the living frame works, each joyfully in its 
sphere, in unison with the heart, for the maintenance of the 
common fabric. But a continuation and extension of the uncon- 
scious labor of the heart and lungs is the conscious work of the 
head and hand of man, whose end is, to feed, to clothe, to lodge, 
to develop, to delight his body and his mind. All labor, the un- 
conscious and the conscious, is but life methodized, that is, life 
made more living, more intelligent, and thence more productive. 
And thus labor, which is the condition and result of life, becomes 
the means of its perpetuation, its extension, its elevation. All 
labor may be delightful ; and as, the healthier the body is, the 
more joyfully and thoroughly the heart and its allies perform their 
unconscious work, so in a healthy social organization all labor, 
the greatest and the least, ceasing to be repulsive and becoming 
attractive and delightful, would be proportionately productive. A 
consummation this not barely most devoutly to bo wished, but 
most surely to be accomplished, by that high labor which the in- 
tellect exalted by love and faith is equal to performing. 

The ideas of eternity and infinity are innate in the human 
mind as attractions towards perfection, as indications and promises 
of incalculable elevation. 

The subjects of old European Monarchies inherit from the past 
such a load of debt, of slow-paced customs, of lazy monopolies, 
and other cold drawbacks from behind, that they cannot move 
forward. Instead of briskly turning the now, the to-day, to rich 
account, they have to work first against yesterday, to stave it off 


with its manifold pressure. Hence, half the laborers of England, 
Germany, France, earn not for themselves food, clothing and 
lodging enough to keep out hunger and cold. Their hands are 
mortgaged to the past. Their existence has no new life in it ; it 
is a lingering perpetuation of the .past. Whereas we of demo- 
cratic America let not the past accumulate upon us. For us, 
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We make clean work 
as we go. We keep the present lively, because we are ever 
snatching a new present from across the confines of the future. 
We are always ^^ going ahead ;" that is, building up the Future 
out of itself and not out of the past. We don't wait for the Future, 
we rush in pursuit of it. 

The higher the sphere the greater the freedom. Mineral, 
vegetable, animal ; zoophite, reptile, quadruped, man ; savage, 
barbarian, civilized. Each of these series is an ascension towards 
freedom, the highest being the freest. 

Religion, above all things, needs to be steadied and purified by 
science and culture. 

Classification is the highest function of intellect ; it brings order 
out of chaos. It is both analysis and synthesis. The higher the 
department of universal life, the keener of course must be the in- 
tellectual insight that could detect its organic law. To order 
minerals is feebler work than to order morals. The man who 
classes, needs to have a kind of creative mastery over his material. 
He intellectually recreates it. The savage, who has mastery 
over nothing, but is a brute serf of Nature, has scarcely any 
power of classification. 

Thought is ever unfolding. A good thinker keeps thinking. 

As with the body 'tis a sign of derangement, if the action of 


any organ makes itself felt, the motions of the heart, for exam- 
ple, or the laboring of the stomach ; so too with the mind, the 
protracted consciousness of any feeling is unhealthy, whether it 
be the religious sentiment or the lust of revenge. 

"Who fears the forces of Nature ? We use them for our profit : 
the stronger they are, the more profitable we make them. The 
passions of man, all his feelings, impulses and motives to action, 
are similarly innocent and available. They are the strongest 
forces and instruments in Nature. We must learn only to use 

We must be realists, not dreamers ; we must found our con- 
victions on facts, not on imaginations which are dream-like. 
Nothing is nobler than facts. Facts are God's ; imaginations are 
man's, and are only then god-like, when they enfold coming or 
possible facts, or adorn existing ones. 

The spokes of the wheel are helpless until bound together by 
the rim. 

Christianity promises such moral splendors, that men, refusing 
to credit these as an earthly possibility, translate its consumma- 
tions to the super-mundane sphere. Priestcraft has always fos- 
tered this incredulity, which opens to it the imagination as its 
work-field, where the tillage is much lighter than on a tangible 
soil. It is easier to saw air than to saw wood ; easier to put the 
wretched off with sanctimonious assurances of celestial compen- 
sations, than to wrestle with earthly ills, and by wisely opposing, 
end them ; easier to preach of Heaven to come, than to put hand 
to work to drive off a present hell. The conscientious pastor 
knows, how almost fruitless a task it is, when, not content with 
stale ritual repetitions and wordy exhortations, he labors practi- 


cally to purge and vivify his flock. With all his toil he brings 
little to pass. His theological tools are dull ; what steel there 
ever was in them is worn off. 

Nature rejects with contempt an hereditary aristocracy. 

In our present mis-organized society, helplessness is the con- 
dition, not of nine in ten, but of all. The wisest and wealthiest 
are encompassed by exposure, dangers, calamity. Against earthly 
troubles, resignation and ultra-terrene expectation are a poor re- 
source, as illogical as meagre. What is done on earth is of our 
own making or allowing. Heaven is just, and inflicts naught. 
Tt lets us do for our good or evil, and when w^e help ourselves, 
helps us. Put we our shoulders to the wheel, the Hercules is 
instantly at our side. We make the beds we lie in ; not you or 
I, but you and I, and all the you's and I's that surround us. 
Against our needs and woes, you or I can do little, but you and 
I, everything. Association, which has made railroads and banks, 
can do much better and his/her. 

As its roots spread and strike down, the tree expands and 
mounts. Thoughts and aims are only then sound, when their 
roots are firm in the earth. The rest is brain-sick fancy, con- 
ceited delusion. The earth and our bodies are for the mind and 
heart to grow and revel in. When we would sacrifice the God- 
given earth and its joys to a tinsel manufacture which we mis- 
call Heaven, we stigmatize Providence, and supplant it with our 
puling fantasies. 

But people do not so sacrifice ; they only make themselves 
bootlcssly wretched by vainly striving to do so. This short- 
sighted effort is for the behoof of the priest, who, three times in 
four, is but a broker who drives a belly-filling business by ex- 


changing drafts on the next world for coin that buys the comforts 
of this. 

There is nothing that some people are more ignorant of, than 
their own ignorance. 

The classification of England's inhabitants into nobility, gen- 
try, shop-keepers, mechanics, laborers, paupers, is as consonant to 
nature as would be the classing of animals according to weight 
and color. 

Fourier undertakes to make all men honest. No wonder that 
he is looked upon as a visionary, who promises so stupendous a 
revolution in human affairs. 

An unsightly object is an old face haunted by the vices of 

Credulity is a characteristic of weakness. Imagination pre- 
cedes Reason. Fancies are a loose substitute for knowledge. 
Hence the unreasonable creeds of young nations, fastened upon 
them by priestcraft, whose criminal practice it has been, and is 
still, by terrifying the imagination to subjugate the reason. The 
first-born of priestcraft was the Devil. 

Priests are ever shuffling over the leaves of old books : the 
life there may be in these they petrify with their own hardness : 
they seek God in traditions and hearsays, and the dim utterances 
of the livers of old : they abide by the outgivings of obsolete 
mystics : they re-assert the beliefs of antiquated seers : the ecs- 
tasies of feverish hallucination they endorse as imperative dog- 
mas. They grovel and grope in the darkness and dawn, to find 
stakes planted by the crude beginners of the world, to the which, 


by grossest cords, they would bind to the past our forward-reach- 
ing souls. The future, too, they suborn and would monopolize : 
with their contemptible Heavens and ridiculous Hells, they would 
captivate our hopes and our fears. Out of imaginations that are 
shallow, unhallowed, meagre, foul, they impudently construct 
both the past and the future. That they may be paid for fur- 
nishing rush-lights, they cultivate darkness, and be-curtain with 
creeds and dogmas the human tabernacle against the sun of truth. 
Those who appeal to the God of light, and to the upright soul 
of man, against their sophistications and usurpations, they cru- 
cify. Audaciously they dub themselves the ministers of God, 
they who are especially not God's ministers but men's. Spir- 
itual insight, moral elevation, rich sympathies, these are the 
tokens whereby the divinely ordained are signalized. Are can- 
didates for any priesthood admitted or rejected by these signs ? 
Not by inborn superiorities of sensibility, but by acquired pro- 
ficiencies, by intellectual adoptions are they tested. This creed, 
these articles, this ritual, — do they accept these, then are they 
accepted. To be learned in humanity, a living learning, which 
the large heart imbibes without labor, this is not their title ; but 
to be learned in theology, a lifeless learning, which the small 
head can acquire by methodical effort. They would live and 
make others live by the dead letter, and not by the living law. 
The dead letter is the carcass of what has been, or what is ima- 
gined to have been. The living law is what is : it is not written, 
it is forever being written on the heart of man by the hand of 

What by defect of harmonious organization Christendom wastes 
of nervous power would vitalize a planet. 

Machinery and the useful Arts are man's inventions for indus- 
trial helps. The Fine Arts he creates for sesthetic helps. 


Disproportion is disqualification. Too much is unwieldy: loo 
little is feebleness. A giant is of no more use than a dwarf. A 
man seven feet high finds his extra foot a daily incumbrance. 
A man of more head than heart is dangerous : a man of more 
heart than head is a victim. 

Every deed of man is preceded by a thought. In the most 
trivial movement, immaterial action is the antecedent and pro- 
ducer of the material. Every result brought about by human 
contrivance and will is an embodied finishing whose beginning is 
a spiritual seed sow^n in the brain. No grossest act but existed 
first in thought before it took body. Without thinking, a man 
would go without his dinner. Every act proves a precedent 
thought. This is an absolute law of the mind. As all human 
acts pre-suppose human thought, so superhuman acts pre-suppose 
superhuman thought. A man is a superhuman act, and the ex- 
istence of a man demonstrates the pre-existence of God.